THE LAST HOPE

“Hang on and don’t move,” one of the fellows called to him. “The hike is off. You just hang on. You haven’t got another inch to move in. Don’t look around even.” I don’t know who it was that called, all I know is it was one of us.

“What can we do?” I said.

Westy said, “Let’s take off our stockings and tie them together.”

“Good idea,” Hunt said. “Look—he’s moving again.”

“Don’t get excited,” I said; “he didn’t move. Hurry up, all of you, take your stockings off. Are you all right?” I called to Warde.

“Guess so,” he said.

“Don’t look down, it’ll only get you rattled,” I said.

“What do you mean—rattled?” he called.

I said, “Well, can’t you take a little advice? When you’re in the scouts you’ll learn that you can always hang on tighter with your eyes shut.”

We took off our stockings and tied them together but there was so much space needed for the knots that they made a line only about five feet long. So we tied a couple of our scout shirts on by the sleeves. Then Westy took hold of one end and I took hold of the other, and we pulled. It pulled out in one place and we fastened it again. It was a clumsy kind of a line and we didn’t know whether it would hold or not. But it was the only thing we could think of.

Then I called to Warde, “Don’t move till we tell you. Are you slipping?”

“Guess not,” he said.

“Don’t move even if you feel something on your back. We’re going to throw a line right near your hand.”

I grabbed the end stocking and wound it around my hand so it wouldn’t slip away. Then I threw the other end, the end with the shirts. It went over the edge of the shelf within about three feet of Warde’s arm.

“Don’t grab it yet,” I said. “Wait. Don’t let go.”

I began pulling to make sure the line was strong. Maybe the shirt on the end was caught on something below the shelf. Maybe the line would have held Warde all right if he moved back on his hands and knees. But anyway, it didn’t hold when I pulled on it. I guess I pulled too hard. Anyway the line broke right near my hand and most of it went over the edge of the shelf.

“There it is at the bottom,” Warde said. He didn’t seem excited or disappointed. I never saw a fellow like Warde Hollister—never. I’ve seen brave fellows but never a fellow just like him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Westy said; “what next?”

I guess Warde must have heard that because he called, “Nobody’s to blame. You tell my people.”

I was nearly crying. I said, “Warde, you hold on. You’re not slipping, are you?”

“N—not much,” he said.

“Don’t trust to those weeds,” Westy called. “Can’t you get your fingers in a crack or a crevice or something and brace yourself back? We’ll take off every stitch we have on and make another——”

“I’m slipping, fellows,” he said. “I was a scout anyway, hey? No, I wasn’t——”

“You’re the best scout that ever was, Warde,” I called to him. I was nearly crying, I couldn’t help it. “Only hang on—please hang on—do you hear? Please hang on. The bushes—just wait——”

By that time the fellows were all undressing. Poor Pee-wee was so excited and nervous he just tore his shirt off.

“It’s too late,” Warde said—awful calm. “I’m slipping. These blamed weeds don’t hold. Don’t you fellows worry. Maybe I’ll land——”

We could see well enough that his head and shoulders were over the edge. It was just a case of one root coming up and his grabbing another one, and slipping a little each time. In about another half a minute he’d have only his legs to hold on with. I haven’t got much use for lifelines made of old clothes. They’re all right in stories but where there are a lot of knots fastening together different kinds of clothes, one knot is pretty sure to give way. The only kind of line we could make now was a pretty clumsy kind of a one and it would take us at least ten minutes to get it made.

By that time Warde would be....

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