All the while the tide kept coming higher, until it was now to their waists. But they had not yet made enough notches to enable them to stand up, clinging by their hands and toes. For it needed four niches for each lad—eight laboriously-cut holes in the wall, four niches for the hands and four for the feet, some distance apart. Even when this was done it would only raise them about twenty inches. Would that be enough?
"We can't cut any more after this," said Frank dully, when they had almost finished the eight.
"Why not?"
"Because we can't hold on in these and cut any more. The footing isn't good enough. If we only had a sort of platform to stand on, we could reach up higher. As it is, I'm afraid this isn't going to do much good—that is for very long. The water is still rising."
"If we only had some sticks," exclaimed Andy hopelessly. "We could drive them in the dirt, leaving the ends projecting, and then we could go up, like on a ladder."
"But we haven't any sticks."
"Maybe there are some on the shelf where are standing; imbedded in it."
It was a slim chance, but worth trying, and by turns they stooped over and felt down beneath the water. This had the effect of wetting them to their shoulders, but not a piece of wood could they discover. Helplessly they stared at each other in the dying gleam of their electric torches. Relentlessly the water mounted higher.
"We might as well get up in the niches," said Andy, after another long pause. "We may not be able to climb if we wait too long."
"Wait as long as possible," advised his brother in a low voice.