I began pulling to make sure the line was strong. Maybe the shirt on the end was caught on something below the shelf. Maybe the line would have held Warde all right if he moved back on his hands and knees. But anyway, it didn’t hold when I pulled on it. I guess I pulled too hard. Anyway the line broke right near my hand and most of it went over the edge of the shelf.
“There it is at the bottom,” Warde said. He didn’t seem excited or disappointed. I never saw a fellow like Warde Hollister—never. I’ve seen brave fellows but never a fellow just like him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Westy said; “what next?”
I guess Warde must have heard that because he called, “Nobody’s to blame. You tell my people.”
I was nearly crying. I said, “Warde, you hold on. You’re not slipping, are you?”
“N—not much,” he said.
“Don’t trust to those weeds,” Westy called. “Can’t you get your fingers in a crack or a crevice or something and brace yourself back? We’ll take off every stitch we have on and make another——”
“I’m slipping, fellows,” he said. “I was a scout anyway, hey? No, I wasn’t——”
“You’re the best scout that ever was, Warde,” I called to him. I was nearly crying, I couldn’t help it. “Only hang on—please hang on—do you hear? Please hang on. The bushes—just wait——”