What he did, he did in a kind of impulse of reckless endeavor. He knew that if he went down, he would not this time fall in the mud, but on the pile of rocky debris. Clasping the rock above with both hands, he succeeded in getting one leg upon the wall, then the other. For just two or three seconds, his peril was frightful, until he got his whole weight upon the wall. Then he was lying safely on top of it.

At this spot there was a sheer descent upon the outside. He might have risked a jump, for the depth was not so great as within. But he was chafed and sore from his frantic effort and lame from his earlier fall. So he limped around to the point where the remains of the stone steps were and descended there. If it had not been for the unconscious child within, he would have experienced the exhilaration of Monte Cristo at being out in the world once more.

But what should he do now? The nearest house, he knew, was a mile off, and it would take him long to limp that distance. Moreover, he was now conscious of a certain personal quality which he had always exhibited in an insignificant way.

This was his self-reliance, destined to be the making of him. As long as Emerson could remember, he had been the butt of ridicule by boys. Sometimes, he had been the victim of rough usage. But he had never told of this at home nor committed the unpardonable sin of making an ally of his older brother; “big-brother stuff” he had eschewed. He had begun when very young going into the city alone, and attending select matinees, lectures and exhibitions. Very early, he had begun carrying his wallet with the means to finance these trips. Once, when a mere child, he had been lost, and he had gone and told a policeman.

These things, and things like them, had won him only ridicule at the hands of boys. And his queer, adult phraseology had aroused unholy mirth. It would hardly do to say that a boy should not be too refined, yet extreme refinement in a boy is apt to tell to his disadvantage. At all events, it had been so with Emerson.

But the spirit of self-reliance, if it exists, will manifest itself in large ways as well as in small ways, given only the occasion. And Emerson Skybrow, baffled, lame, distraught, would not go to the nearest house and put his business into some one else’s hands. He had not stumbled upon little Margie Garrison, he had gone seeking her. Well, he would see this thing through or know the reason why. That was his own phrase, “or know the reason why.” They had often laughed at him when he said he would do this or that or know the reason why. Scouts are so fond of laughing that sometimes they laugh too soon....

He limped along the road to a small bridge some hundred feet distant. His exploit with the broken plank had given him an idea. With a plank of adequate length he might get the child out of that hole; then he would carry her to the nearest house; he would carry or get her there somehow.

The flooring lay loosely across the bridge; he had heard it rattle under a speeding auto while he was in the sunken enclosure. He found that the top layer of loose planks was supported by a still older flooring underneath. He could remove a plank without causing peril to travelers. These flooring planks extended out beyond the width of the bridge on either side in disorderly, irregular lengths, and he selected the longest. It was a heavy, thick timber and hard to manage. But it was easily long enough for his purpose.

He tugged and dragged at this unwieldy burden, pausing at intervals to rest, until he reached the enclosure. Here he slid it over the edge of the wall until it dropped by its own weight into the hole. Reaching from the bottom of one side to the top of the other, it was at an angle of less than forty-five degrees; easy enough to ascend, he thought.

His hopes now ran high. And besides, good news awaited him as he went cautiously down the plank, letting himself descend backward on hands and knees. He heard the child stirring. Then he heard her speak. Her voice sounded strangely clear and out of place in that black dungeon, calling for her mother. “Mother, my back aches and I got a pain,” she said weakly. It seemed like any other child awaking in the night. “It’s all water,” she said faintly.

Then Emerson spoke to her. “It isn’t your mother, it’s Emerson Skybrow; you fell in here and I found you. You needn’t be afraid because I’m going to get you out of here and take you home. I guess you came here after ivy, didn’t you?”

“You’re the boy they call Sissie Skybrow,” she said; “I know you.”

“Yes,” he said. “You needn’t be afraid.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of you,” she said, half noticing him as she rocked her head in discomfort from side to side. “Nobody’s afraid of you.”

She was but a small child, and suffering; she did not mean to hurt him.

“I want to get you on this board,” he said; “and then maybe I can help you up. Do you think you can sit up? I guess you’re not hurt very much, are you?”

“There were people trying to chop me with axes,” she said, as he gently encouraged her to a sitting posture. “They came on a ship.”

“Well, you’re better now,” he comforted.

“I like you,” she said. “I don’t care if a lot of smarties don’t. They’re sillies calling you a girl’s name; boys don’t have girls’ names.”

“No,” he said; “I’m going to help you get on the board now.”

But this was more difficult than he had supposed, for she closed her eyes again, seeming to hover in the borderland of consciousness. And whatever her actual condition, he saw that she could not cooperate in her own rescue. The angle of the plank was too steep to permit walking up, even assuming that she could help herself. She was a dead-weight and might remain so for hours.

What he did entailed somewhat rough handling and all the strength he had, besides considerable risk. But he did it and succeeded in it. He got the little body onto the shorter piece of broken plank and bound it there like an Indian papoose bound to a board. For this purpose, he used his own shirt and the light coat which the child wore. She was conscious in a weak, half-interested sort of way, and made no objection to this novel treatment. It was curious how her undirected, wandering thoughts reverted to Emerson in his familiar role of “sissie” and “teacher’s pet.”

“They said you play jacks,” she said, and seemed not particularly interested in an answer.

He got his burden onto the slanting plank and pushed it up little by little. It was hard to push and care was required to keep it from going over sideways. But if it did not move easily, at least it did not backslide easily. He got it forward a few inches, then rested, letting the weight of it press against him while he straddled the plank and locked his legs beneath it to keep from sliding. Then he advanced it a few inches and moved up himself.

Before he had pushed his burden far, it occurred to him to slip a lead pencil under the makeshift car and this roller enabled him to advance it more easily. It seemed a risky business as slowly, inch by inch, he progressed higher and higher, guiding his burden carefully to avoid side movement. Reaching the top, he found it easier to attain the wall than before. Now he was able to lift the child and half drag, half carry her, down the slope of masonry which had once been a flight of steps.

To do this thing, he had strained every nerve and every muscle in his body. He was bare to the waist, and covered with splinters, cuts and bruises. His natty trousers were in shreds. And this was Emerson Skybrow—“Arabella.”

As he bore his burden down the chaos of stone and ancient crumbling mortar, away from the scene of his harrowing adventure, he breathed in great gulps, pausing now and again to get his breath. His chest heaved, his wet hair fell streaking over his eyes, he reeled, he staggered, he paused exhausted, with the child clinging to his knees.

It was while pausing in this attitude some yards in from the road, with the child clinging to him as he tried to get his breath, that he heard voices in the distance....