“Yes—oh, yes. Oh, boys, please get me out of this terrible place.”
It did not take long to get a rope and followed by half the population of the little town, the boys made their way back to the mouth of the shaft. But here a fresh difficulty presented itself. It seemed that old Mr. Joyce had swooned. At all events he did not answer their shouts to him.
Frank began making a noose in the rope which he slipped under his own armpits.
“What are you going to do?” asked Harry.
“Going down there to get the old man out,” was the cool reply.
Despite Harry’s protestations Frank was finally lowered over the lip of the black pit. It had been agreed that after he reached the bottom that two tugs was to be the signal that he wished to be hauled up. Pretty soon the men lowering him felt the rope slacken and knew that he had reached the bottom of the pit. It seemed a long time before the reassuring two tugs gave them word that all was well.
But when they started to haul the boy and his unconscious burden up a fresh difficulty presented itself. The rope which was already badly chafed would certainly break under the uneven hauling of the men, and also the rough edge of the pit mouth would undoubtedly wear it through before the boy and the old man had been hauled to the surface.
“Get another rope,” cried Harry.
“There ain’t another long enough in the camp, stranger,” replied one of the army of rescuers.
“Here, I hev it,” suddenly exclaimed the sheriff, who, by this time, had placed his prisoner in the town lockup and had joined the onlookers, “let’s git a log of wood and use it as a roller.”