I called to him, “Warde, don’t try to turn around on that ledge. Crawl back and see if you can stand up enough so I can get hold of your hand. We’ll call the whole thing off.”
He didn’t pay any attention to me, but moved around so his head was toward the edge. About three feet more and he would be able to look over. It gave me the shivers just to watch him.
Will Dawson said, “It’s too late, he couldn’t get back up here now.”
I knew that was so—that he wouldn’t be able to get within reach of our hands. If it turned out that he couldn’t go all the way down I didn’t know what would happen.
He was clutching little clumps of bush with his hands and sort of holding himself back that way. All of a sudden he slid forward and only stopped himself by pressing a little patch of bush between his knees. I could see he was holding his knees together with all his strength. Even still he slipped a little. I guess by that time he realized himself the danger he was in, but he didn’t say anything.
Westy flung off his coat and threw it down, keeping hold of one sleeve. He called, “Here, grab hold of that with one hand if you can.”
“I can’t let go,” Warde called.
His back was toward us so he couldn’t see the jacket, but the rest of us saw that it wasn’t within his reach. When Westy threw it, it went maybe within two feet of Warde’s hand and then fell dangling against the cliff.
“Let’s tie two jackets together by the sleeves,” Hunt said.
“He wouldn’t dare let go to catch hold of it,” I told him. “Can’t you see he’s hanging on with both hands and feet now? He can’t afford to take any more chances; it’s bad enough already.”