“Sounds like man in distress,” said Betsy, breaking into a run with that eager alacrity which usually characterises the sympathetic.
Zariffa replied not, but followed her mother. The cry was repeated, and at once recognised as being uttered by the man who was “born for a mis’nary,” but had mistaken his profession when he became a pirate! When they reached the spot whence it had apparently issued, the mis’nary, or ex-pirate, was nowhere to be seen.
“Hooroo! whar’ is you?” shouted Betsy, looking round.
“Here!” cried a half-smothered voice from somewhere in the earth.
“Oh! look!” exclaimed Zariffa in a sort of squeal as she ran towards a spot where two strange plants seemed to have sprung up.
“Rosco’s legs!” said Betsy, aghast.
And she was right. The venturesome man had, with his accustomed hardihood, attempted that day to scale the mountain side, and had fallen into a hole by the side of the track, from which he could by no means extricate himself, because of its being a tightish fit, his head being down and his legs were in the air.
“Oh, Betsy, pull me out lass! I’m half-choked already,” gasped the unfortunate man.
But Betsy could not move him, much less pull him out, although heartily assisted by her daughter.
“Run, Ziffa, run an’ fetch men!”