Arthur sat sound asleep, his hands behind his head, his legs hanging over the edge of the arch, and his back propped in the angle formed by the junction of the window and the fragment of the old roof. Lucky for him was that natural armchair; for without it, at the first fall of sleep, he would undoubtedly have rolled from his perch into the depths below. Dig approached him gently and discreetly.
“Nearly time to get up, old chappie,” said he, laying his hand on the sleeper’s arm to prevent any sudden start.
That “nearly” was a stroke of genius. Had he incautiously announced that the chapel-bell had begun to ring, or that he would be late for call-over, the result might have been fatal.
As it was, Arthur opened his eyes lazily and yawned—
“All serene. Why, hullo, I say! Is that you, Dig, old man?”
“Yes, rather! Sit steady; we’ve got a ladder and ropes, and Marky’s just down there. How are you?”
Arthur rubbed his eyes, and his teeth chattered.
“Pretty cold and stiff, old man. How jolly of you to come! You see, the mortar or something slipped, and I couldn’t get up or down. I yelled, but you’d gone.
At last I managed to get up again, and there I’ve stuck. How are we going down now?”