“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.”
He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last discovered the decrepit raft.
“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want some one to go with me. Here, you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil than the rest of us.”
Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which sank ominously under the extra weight.
“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.”
Under this primitive method of propulsion, the progress of the raft was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand. Gradually they manœuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth, which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned forward to the entrance.
“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.”
There was no reply of any sort.
“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,” expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black as the pit, and I can see nothing.”
He pulled a silver match-box from his trousers pocket.