“I can see that, sir. Now put your hand behind you and pull it carefully out of your belt. Steady! there is no hurry. Don’t drop it.”
Saxe passed his hand behind him, and gradually hitched the axe out from where he had been carrying it like a sword while he climbed to the hole.
“That’s better. Mind! Now push it into the hole and turn it across. Can you?”
Saxe obeyed his instructor, and Dale saw that the opening was about the level of the lad’s waist, and evidently roomy—at least, amply large inside for the axe to be crossed.
“Now you’ve got something better to hold on by, and can hook your arm over it to rest your hand.”
“Yes,” cried Saxe, who was already doing this. “My hand was so horribly cramped, and it seemed as if you would never come.”
“Time always seems long when we are in trouble. Now then, do you feel safer?”
“Oh yes,” cried Saxe; and there was a complete change in his tone. “I can hold on now.”
“Of course you can. Pretty sort of an Alpine hand you are, to give up without thinking of your tools!”
“Yes, I had forgotten my axe.”