“Twenty feet,” muttered Blake. “Confound the luck! It isn’t that jump-off; but how in–how are we going to get up on the cliff? There’s an everlasting lot of omelettes in those birds’ nests. If only that bloomin’–how’s that, Win, me b’y?–that bloomin’, blawsted baobab was on t’ other side. The wood’s almost soft as punk. We could drive in pegs, and climb up the trunk.”
“There are other trees beyond it,” remarked Miss Leslie.
“Then maybe we can shin up–”
“I fear the branches that overhang the cliff are too slender to bear any weight.”
“And it’s too infernally high to climb up to this overhanging baobab limb.”
“I say,” ventured Winthrope, “if we had a axe, now, we might cut up one of the trees, and make a ladder.”
“Oh, yes; and if we had a ladder, we might climb up the cliff!”
“But, Mr. Blake, is there not some way to cut down one of the trees? The tree itself would be a ladder if it fell in such a way as to lean against the cliff.”
“There’s only the penknife,” answered Blake. “So I guess we’ll have to scratch eggs off our menu card. Spring leopard for ours! Now, if you really want to help, you might scrape the soup bones out of your boudoir, and fetch a lot more brush. It’ll take a big fire to rid the hole of that cat smell.”
“Will not the tree burn?”