CHAPTER XI
AT THE EDGE OF THE CHASM
Herbert Narfield wrenched at the steering wheel, but the still intact tyre merely slithered in the dust. Not for one moment did he lose his head. Switching off the ignition, he applied both brakes. Even then the car skidded remorselessly towards the sickening depths.
From where he sat, wide-eyed and motionless, Colin was dully aware that already the bonnet of the car appeared to cut the edge of the precipice. Momentarily he expected the front wheels to plunge over the brink, followed by the rest of the car and the occupants in a terrific dive of utter annihilation.
But seemingly by a miracle the expected catastrophe did not materialise. With a tremendous jar, that brought Colin's head in violent contact with the wind-screen, the car stopped dead.
Tiny Desmond, lying across the back of the front seat, was breathing heavily. For one thing, he was badly scared; for another, the brass-rimmed edge of the seat-back had well-nigh winded him.
Colonel Narfield was sitting perfectly quiet at the useless steering-wheel. His bronzed features were immobile, his jaw sternly set. Realising that all immediate danger was past, he was covertly watching Colin out of the corner of his eyes. He was not disappointed at his investigation. Colin, though he "had the wind up," gave no sign of being in a state of panic.
McFrazer's, "Ah, weel, will I be for puttin' on the Stepney?" broke the silence. There was a general exodus from the stranded car—and a cautious performance, too, since it was quite possible that any undue vibration might complete a protracted disaster and send the vehicle crashing into space.
"We'll man-handle her back into a safer position first, I think," decided Colonel Narfield. "Another six inches and the front wheel would have been over. Get out the rope, McFrazer."