The man, whom Michael called Jo, had now come up, and, without any more words, the two set to work. We waited breathlessly, Hattie May clinging hard to my wrist, Eve still panting on the ground at our feet. There was an endless wait after they let down the rope while they waited for Hamish to make it fast. Finally came the call to go ahead, and they began to haul. Inch by inch, tugging singly and together. The muscles in Michael’s arms stood out brown and hard; perspiration streamed from his face; even the burly Jo was gasping.
At the moment when her brother’s head appeared above the hole, Hattie May let out a frightful scream. I don’t know whether it was just the reaction or the sight of his straw-colored hair and face plastered with mud. But she continued to scream until the rescue was completed and Hamish himself, blinking and tottering on unsteady feet, stood before us. “Shut up!” he said.
His sister threw herself upon him. “Oh, Hamish, you look awful—are you hurt?”
Michael put out a hand to unfasten the rope about his waist. “He’s okay, aren’t you, Hamish?” he said, gently pushing Hattie May aside.
“An’ fer the love of Mike, how’d you manage to fall down there?” Jo demanded, curiously surveying him.
Hamish didn’t answer. He was peering at Michael through near-sighted eyes—his glasses were gone. “How’d you get out?” he demanded suddenly.
A deeper flush poured over Michael’s hot face. But he only shrugged. “How long have you been down there?” he asked in his turn.
“All night,” Hamish told him. “And, boy, it was some night, believe me!”
“It must have been ghastly,” returned Michael. “How in the world did it happen?”
But Hamish announced that he couldn’t say another word till he’d had a drink. “Didn’t you get the bottle I threw down?” his sister demanded. His only answer was a look!