“No, I tell yuh, we got their rifles. Fink,” the tone was overbearing and threatening, “get a move on an’ throw down that rope.”
The rope came down with a dull thud. Then the voice:
“Get out o’ that. Scramble up that rope. You’re both down there—we know it.”
A string of blasphemous oaths accompanied the sharp command. Sandy shrank back close to Dick. They were both shaking with terror.
“Do yuh hear!” screamed Henderson, enraged at the delay. “Your game’s up, I tell yuh. I’m givin’ yuh just five minutes to come outta that hole.”
“I can’t,” moaned Sandy. “I can’t, Dick!”
With difficulty, Dick was gaining control of himself.
“We must, Sandy,” he quavered. “There’s no help for it. They have the upper hand now. Let me help you to your feet.”
Sandy could scarcely stand. He trembled, and raised a white, pathetic face to the opening.
“We’re coming, Henderson,” Dick called out, his voice ringing tragically.