"Help! oh, help!" came a feeble voice from the abyss below.
"Where are you? What is the matter?" he called, searching in vain for any sign of life.
"Oh, save me!" was the quick response. "I cannot possibly hold on much longer."
"Have you fallen over the cliff?" he called.
"No, no. I tried to climb up, and I cannot get back again."
"Then shut your eyes and hold tight," he called. "I'll be round in a few minutes."
"Oh, do be quick, for I'm getting faint."
"If you faint you're lost," he called. "Hold on like grim death and don't look down. I'll be with you directly."
It was a long way round by Penwith Cove, but there was no nearer way. He ran like a man pursued by wild beasts. The path was narrow and uneven, and followed the irregularities of the cliffs. A dozen times he came within an ace of breaking his neck, but he managed to keep on his feet. The question of his own safety never once occurred to him. Someone was in deadly peril, and a moment later or earlier might be a matter of life or death.
The path into the cove was by a series of zigzags; but he took a straight cut in most instances to the imminent risk of life and limb. A few cuts and bruises he did not mind. His clothes might not be fit to wear again. Tobogganning without a toboggan might not be elegant, but it was certainly exciting, and if it did nothing else it would find work for his tailor.