"Guess I am," was the reply. "Now for the last lap."
Detroit spoke cheerfully, but the "last lap" was roughly three times the height of the portion already climbed.
Doggedly the two men stuck to their task. Once Detroit whispered that one of the rungs felt insecure. Beyond that not a word was spoken.
Hamerton could hear the American's laboured breaths. His own heart was throbbing violently against his ribs, his arms felt as heavy as lead, while the muscles of his calves had a decided tendency to "bunch"—the forerunner of the dreaded cramp.
Many a time during his terms at Dartmouth he had climbed over the fore-topmast crosstrees of the old hulk Britannia. In those days he had thought nothing of it, but now, unaccustomed to strenuous exercises of that sort, he felt the severity of the task.
Detroit was slackening his pace now. A few inches above his head Hamerton could see the American's heels mount step by step on a seemingly endless task. It reminded him of a pet mouse in a wheel.
Up, up, up! It was by this time little better than a tedious crawl. Once or twice the American stopped to regain his breath, and then plodded resolutely on his upward way. Then, to the Sub's delight, he saw Detroit lurch forward and throw up his heels. His comrade had reached the summit, and was sprawling, wellnigh exhausted, upon the turf.
Summoning up his remaining energies Hamerton also gained the much-desired resting place. Side by side they lay drinking in the cool breeze that came straight from the foam-flecked sea, on which innumerable lights, like stars on a dark night, twinkled incessantly.
"Time!" ejaculated Hamerton, rolling over and kneeling up. "Now, easy ahead; we'll come across another wire entanglement unless I'm very much mistaken."
They were now going with the wind—the worst possible direction, since the sound of any danger in front of them was carried away, while their own approach could be heard by any sentry who happened to be to leeward.