"Nonsense!" protested Phil. "The cliff's too smooth. There's not a single niche in it. You'd be smashed to a jelly for a dead cert."
"I'm not trying at present," said Burgoyne. "But I mean to some day. And by a rope."
"Rope! What rope?" asked his friend.
"We'll have to make up one from short ends," replied Alwyn. "It's easy to cut off short lengths and stow them under our clothes. Then at night, or at any odd time if it comes to that, we can make up a rope long enough to reach the beach, and strong enough to bear at least a couple of men. Then if we can get hold of some files——"
"You'll have a job, old son," interrupted Branscombe. "I was speaking to Withers about that very thing last night. There's a mighty sharp Chink in charge of the stores in the workshops, and he takes care to count every blessed thing in the tool line that's issued out, and when they are returned, he—— Hello! What's the move now?"
Breaking off in the midst of his description of Li Whong's methods, the Fourth Officer pointed in the direction of the conical hill which had attracted the chums' attention on their first journey from the tunnel to the compound.
Owing to the contour of the ground forming the prisoners' camp, the whole of the enclosed space was under direct observation, not only from the two block-houses, but from the hill as well. A few minutes before the flat top of the hill was seemingly bare. Now a tall flag-staff had been reared within the space of thirty seconds. Even as the chums looked, they saw a red-and-black flag broken out smartly at the masthead.
"What's that for, I wonder?" remarked Phil.
"Hanged if I know," replied Alwyn. "Precious little good I should imagine, since there's no wind. See anything seaward? I do, by Jove! There's a vessel nearly hull down."
"The Malfilio most likely," hazarded Branscombe. "Why doesn't she use wireless?"