PROGRESS
When he stood beside them once more on the ledge he told them what he had seen.
“It’s a fortress of rock up there, and nothing else,” he said. “We may have to climb at least a couple of hundred feet. Have any of you ever done any Alpine work?”
No; they knew nothing of the perils or delights of mountaineering.
“I’m in the same boat,” he confessed, “but I’ve read a lot about it, and I’ve noticed one thing in our favor—the pitch of the strata is downward towards the land, and that kind of rock face gives the best and safest foothold. Moreover, this cleft, or fault, seems to continue a long way up.
“Now, we haven’t a minute to spare. Each hour will find us weaker. The weather, too, is clear, and the rock fairly dry, but wind and rain, or fog, would prove our worst enemies. There is plenty of cordage down below. I’ll gather all within reach. It may prove useful.”
He seemed to have no more to say, and was stooping to begin the descent when Sturgess grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Wait a second, commodore!” he cried. “You’ve got your job cut out, and I’ll obey orders and keep a close tongue, you bet; but when it comes to collecting rope lengths, that is my particular stunt, as I sell hemp, among other things. You just rest up a while.”
Maseden nodded, and made way for a willing deputy. It was only fit and proper that he, too, should conserve his energies.