"Colonel," I cried, and I'm sure that my tone was convincing, "for heaven's sake drop that Yankee spy business and get me out of this."
"Sir," he said, very stiffly, "I have accused you of being a Yankee spy, and I will compel you to admit that you are a Yankee spy."
"Colonel," I shouted, "my arms are growing tired, and so are my toes, and it is at least two hundred feet to the bottom."
"Sir," he said, still very stiff and haughty, "I despise falsehoods, and so do all Southern gentlemen. You are a Yankee spy, and you still have the face to deny it."
"Pull me up colonel," I cried. "I'm getting awful tired."
"Are you not a Yankee spy?" he asked.
I thought I felt some of the muscles in my arms cracking. The time to despise trifles had arrived.
"Yes, colonel," I said, "I'll admit that I'm a Yankee spy or anything else you want to charge against me."
"Good enough," he said. "Now when I let my coat down, grip it with your right hand, and hold on as if you had grown to it."
He pulled off his Confederate overcoat, curved his left arm around a jutting rock, and with his right hand lowered the coat to me. I embedded my right hand in the gray garment, and, grasping with the other at the short shrubs, tried to scramble up. I did get about half-way, but as I could find no more crevices for my toes, I hung there, limp and exhausted.