But he came of a Campbell clan which never flinched.
He was preparing to slide down, himself, when an arm–a left elbow rather–thrust him rudely back.
“T-take hold of this rope-end. Throw yourself flat on the ground there. Sit on him, you girls, so that he may not be drawn over!” cried a voice, pointed, vigorous.
Pem knew that it was the fiery voice of the nickum, the broad-shouldered youth, who had sat in the chair before her, whose crowing had been responsible for her feat.
Her colorless face was turned upward then and she had seen him push up the lower folds of his sweater with his left hand–even while its elbow sent the chauffeur back–and while his right, lightning-like, uncoiled a rope, a lariat, worn under it around his waist.
It was then that he shouted to her to “keep cool”; and that she, turning her head aside against the rock, became a living effigy of the Thunder Bird.
Not waiting to make the rope fast around his own body–or his body fast to it–he slid down.
The next moment he was standing beside her in the chair.
“Ha! So the ‘pep’ was in the wrong box that time,” he said coolly.
“Yes. Last time it was in the ice-box,” snapped she, as coolly, not to be outdone. “So you did remember–know me–us!”