“Form a human chain. Our crowd is big enough. Beside, those two men coming along will most likely give us a hand. Feeling better, Joe?”
“Yes! But, for goodness’ sake, fellows, hurry up. This ledge seems awfully small, and my head is dizzy.”
“Courage, Joe, old boy, we’ll have you up in a jiffy.”
By this time the two men were close at hand, and divining that something was amiss, hurried forward. One was rather tall, with sandy hair and a pointed beard, while the other, shorter and not quite so stout, had intensely black hair and mustache.
“Hello, what’s this?” exclaimed the former. Then, as his eyes rested on the dangerous cleft and Joe Preston on the ledge, he gave a low whistle of astonishment.
“H’m, your friend’s in trouble, sure enough. How did it happen?”
Jack briefly explained.
“Certainly we’ll help you—no doubt about that. But can you stand it down there for about a second, my boy?”
He hastily unstrung a small camera, sighted it, a click sounded, and Joe had been snapped.
“Ought to make a remarkable picture,” observed the man. “Now to work.”