“You brute!” muttered Dickenson. “’Pon my word, if it wasn’t for poor old Drew I believe I should let you go over, and see how you liked that.—Here, Drew,” he cried aloud, “how is it? What are you doing?”
“Holding his left hand down. He has got hold of my revolver.”
“Bless him for a beauty! Can you stop him?”
“I don’t know yet; I’m so awkwardly situated. Can you keep us from going over?”
“Oh yes, I can do that. Here, I’ve got at my six-shooter now; hold still, and I’ll put something through his head.”
“No, no; we must take him alive,” cried Lennox.
“It’s all very fine, but he’s going to take us dead. Better let me cripple him. Shall I light a match?”
“No, no. I’ve got tight hold of his wrist now, so that he can’t use my revolver. Ha! Look out!”
“I shall have to shoot him,” cried Dickenson; for, foiled in his effort to get hold of the fresh weapon, the man began to struggle again fiercely, heaving himself up and wrenching himself to right and left in a way that threatened to result in the whole party going over into the black gulf below.
Lennox uttered another warning cry.