“‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but what’ll come o’ Archibald?’
“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘it looks t’ me as if he’d be content jus’ t’ keep on goin’.’
“In this way, sir, I come t’ the top o’ the cliff. They was signs o’ weather—a black sky, puffs o’ wind jumpin’ out, scattered flakes o’ snow—but they wasn’t no sign o’ Archibald Shott. They was quite a reach o’ brink, sir, high enough from the shore ice t’ make a stomach squirm; an’ it took a deal o’ peepin’ an’ stretchin’ t’ spy out Arch an’ Jim. Then I ’lowed that Arch never would get over; for I seed, sir—lyin’ there on the edge o’ the cliff, with more head an’ shoulders stickin’ out in space than I cares t’ dream about o’ these quiet nights—I seed that Archibald Shott was cotched an’ could get no further. There he was, sir, stickin’ like plaster t’ the face o’ the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an’ feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old corpse. I sung out a hearty word—though, God knows! my heart was empty o’ cheer—an’ I heard some words rattle in Shott’s dry throat, but couldn’t understand; an’ then, sir, overcome by space an’ that face o’ fear, I rolled back on the frozen moss, sick an’ limp. When I looked again I seed, so far below that they looked like fat swile on the ice, the skipper an’ the crew o’ the Billy Boy, starin’ up, with the floe an’ black sea beyond, lyin’ like a steep hill under the gray sky. Midway, swarmin’ up with cautious hands an’ feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white an’ cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, his muscles as tense an’ eager, as a brute’s on the hunt.
“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Oh, Jim!’
“Jim jus’ come on up.
“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Is that you?’
“Seemed, sir, it jus’ couldn’t be. Not Jim! Why, I nursed Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t’ the ceilin’ when he was a mushy infant too young t’ do any more’n jus’ gurgle. Why, at that minute, sir, like a dream in the gray space below, I could see Jimmie Tool’s yellow head an’ fat white legs an’ calico dresses, jus’ as they used t’ be.
“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘it can’t be you. Not you, Jim,’ says I; ‘not you!’
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is he stuck? Can’t he get no farther?’
“Jim!