“Well, then, slip down to Borg and fetch another.”
“Slip, indeed—very kind of you,” snapped the doctor. And, followed by a merry laugh from Ørlygur, he turned back towards the cleft where the rope had been left, muttering curses on all foolhardy boys and this present escapade in particular.
A little later he returned with the rope in his hand. He seemed even more angry than when he had started.
“Risking my neck for your mad pranks,” he grumbled. “I had to scramble up the rocks to cut it high enough—I hope you may hang yourself with it some day. Nearly got hung up myself. And came down with a run, and gave myself a most abominable bump at the end of it.”
He did not say where he was hurt, but when he fancied Ørlygur was not looking he rubbed himself tenderly behind.
It was but a moment’s work to make the rope fast, throw out one end to Ørlygur, and draw him slowly in on to the ledge.
“There! And now, where’s the damage?” asked the doctor impatiently, by way of welcome.
“No damage up to now, thanks. But if you feel put out about it, I’ll let you take off one leg at the knee for your trouble.”
They made their way back to the rock where Ørlygur had left his bag. The dog had not moved from the spot, and at sight of its master sprang towards him, greeting him with delight, and continued gambolling around, evidently overjoyed at finding him again.
While Ørlygur was eating, the doctor stared up at the rock and the rest of the rope hanging from the rock above. After a time he asked: