Soon the truck of the foremast appeared. Then the full length of the spar could be seen, with Maseden guiding it. He had tied the rope at a point about one-third of the length from the truck. When it was poised so that lifting alone was required he shouted to them to stop, and rejoined them, breathless, but bright-eyed.
“There’s no means of escape by the sea,” he explained, “so we must try the cliff. This is our bridge. I think it will span the gully. Anyhow, it is worth trying.”
Then they understood, and measuring glances were cast from spar to opposing crest. It would be a close thing, but, as Maseden said, it was certainly worth trying.
In a minute, or less, the broken mast was standing up-ended on the ledge. Then, with its base jammed into a crevice, it was lowered by the rope across the chasm. It just touched the top of the rock wall.
They actually cheered, but the women’s hearts missed a couple of beats when Maseden began to climb again. He worked his way upward without haste, found a toe-grip on the rock, raised himself carefully, and again disappeared from sight.
This time he was not so long away. He looked down on them with a confident smile.
“There’s a chance,” he said. “A ghost of a chance. Now I’m coming back!”