“That you, my boy?” came from above.
“Yes, father.”
“I must sit down again,” said the artist, in a low tone, for he had been standing supporting himself against the wall of the ledge.
“No, sir,” said Drinkwater, as he flashed his lantern round. “If Mr Manners has hurt himself and can’t walk, as Mr Josh says he has, we shan’t be able to haul him up. The rope I brought wouldn’t do it; and besides, we should have no purchase here.”
“Then what are we to do?” said Mr Willows, impatiently. “Tell me what you advise.”
“There’s another way down,” said the man, sturdily. “We couldn’t pull him up there. I know the place he’s on. We can get to it if we go along here; there’s a zig-zag path.”
“Capital!” said the mill-owner. “Come along.”
The path the man referred to was a roundabout one, but it led them to the place where the artist lay.
“It’s a good job we came, sir,” said Mr Willows. “Not a nice place to spend the night in. You fell down here?”
“Yes,” said the artist; “unfortunately.”