"Can you get hold of another length of signal halyard, Phil?" asked Alwyn. "Another three hundred feet of it."
"I dare say," replied Branscombe. "I'll have a jolly good shot at getting it, anyway. What's the scheme?"
Burgoyne rubbed his aching shoulders.
"If you'd been barged into the cliff umpteen times, old son, you'd know," he declared grimly. "We want a guide-line, stretched taut and about eighteen inches inside the rope. That'll prevent anyone being bumped, and also spare them the luxury of an impromptu merry-go-round. We'll have to lower Young Bill, and we may as well make things as comfortable as possible for her."
"Quite so," agreed Phil. "I'll get some line tomorrow, even if it makes my figure look like that of a portly alderman. It wouldn't be a bad idea either to get hold of some spare canvas. You'll want some sort of awning or tent for the boat, and it will come in handy. For one thing, we can wrap Miss Vivian up in it when we lower her."
"What for?" asked Withers.
"To protect her in case any loose stones fall from the cliff," explained Branscombe. "'Sides, if she's covered up she won't be quite so frightened when she's being lowered. At least, I shouldn't think so."
For some minutes silence reigned, save for the ever-present dull rumble of the surf. Then Withers apparently without any reason, began chuckling to himself.
"What is it?" asked Phil.
"What's the joke," added Alwyn. "Out with it."