“Got you, my lad!” came from overhead. “Now look here; I’m not going to hyste you up, ’cause I can’t, but I am going to swing you back’ards and for’ards like a pendulo till you can touch this ’ere bough where I am hanging, and then go on till you can get your legs round it and hold fast. Understand?”
“Yes,” panted Rodd.
“Now then. Belay, and when you get hold you shout.”
It was the work of an acrobat, such as he would have achieved in doubt and despair.
The sailor began swinging the boy to and fro, to and fro, with more and more force, till Rodd felt his legs go crashing in amongst the thick twigs of the great bough that was drawn down by the weight of the two upon it a good deal below the horizontal.
“Harder!” he cried, as he swung back, and then as his legs went well in again he felt that a thick portion was passing between his knees, and thrusting forward his feet with all his might he forced them upwards and directly afterwards passed them one across the other in a desperate grip which left him dragging on the sailor’s hands.
“Fast, my lad?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hold on?”
“Yes.”