The tug began. Their knowledge of the danger seemed to give them double strength. Straining every muscle, never daring to pause for an instant, the boys and men worked silently, while white-faced Joe Preston swung over the chasm.
Jack Lyons felt himself being dragged to safety. His face was purple; his joints seemed to fairly crack, but, with a determination that increased as the moments slipped by, he held on.
How long it seemed! But finally the burden was taken from him by willing hands, and exhausted Jack Lyons lay back on the turf. Then Bob Somers was drawn slowly over the edge, and, at length, other hands seized Joe Preston’s wrists. One final tug, and the boy was safe.
For several moments, not a word was spoken. Joy and an intense feeling of relief filled their hearts, making them forget aching bones and sore flesh.
Then Joe spoke up.
“I’ll never forget this, fellows,” he said quietly, “never!”
“And I guess none of the rest will, either,” observed one of the strangers, dryly. “It was a narrow shave, my lad. How do you feel—hurt yourself much?”
“A bit bruised, and my head aches; that’s all. That ledge seems to have been put there for my especial benefit, eh, Jack?” and Joe smiled rather weakly.
The boys thanked the strangers heartily for their assistance. Norman Redfern was interested when he learned that the two were on their way to visit his artist friend.
“Yes, we three,” the man indicated his dark-haired companion, “knew each other in Paris. I’m from the South, spending a month or two here, and want to renew old friendships.”