OVER THE CLIFF
Ned's last injunction was quite unnecessary. The loud outcry of the dog had already roused the family.
Heads were poked from two or three windows, and a shrill feminine voice was shouting: "Get the gun, pap, get the gun!"
Meanwhile Clay continued to call for help at the top of his voice, finally drowning out the ferocious barking of the dog, and after what seemed an interminable length of time the door of the house opened and the farmer appeared on the threshold, attired in shirt and trousers.
He had a gun in one hand and a candle in the other. Behind him were two good sized lads armed with clubs, while the flutter of a petticoat was visible on the stairway.
"Hurry! hurry!" cried Clay. "There's some one down the well."
The farmer crossed the yard with provoking calmness, holding his gun ready for use.
"Why, it's only a boy!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of Clay. "What are you doing here, you young rascal?"
"Don't stop to ask questions now," implored Clay. "Get my friend out of the well, or he will be drowned."
The farmer uttered an exclamation, and peeped through the broken boards. Then he seized the bucket that was suspended by a windlass over the well and quickly lowered it.