The Adventures of Billy Topsail. Duncan Norman

a start.

      If you have ever climbed about a rocky sea-coast, you will know that an ascent may be comparatively simple where a descent is quite impracticable; you will know that the unwary may of a sudden reach a point where to continue the climb is a nauseating necessity. There are times when one regrets the courage that led him into his difficulty – the courage or the carelessness, as the case may be.

      Experience had long ago taught Billy Topsail that; but the lesson had not been severe – there had been no gulf behind him; the whip of life or death had not urged him on. Indeed, he had never attempted a climb of such height and ugly possibilities in the way of blind leads as Shag Cliff, else possibly he should not have made the start with a sense of adventure so inspiring.

      Up he went – up and still up, his cheeks glowing, his nerves pleasurably tingling! Up – up and still up, until he could hear the whiz of gulls' wings near him, and the feeling of space below began to try his nerves. At last he stopped to rest and look about. Down deep lay the breakers, so far off, it seemed, that he marvelled he could hear the roar and crash so distinctly.

      "An' they says 'tis a hundred feet!" thought he. "Hut! 'Tis two hundred if 'tis an inch. An' I isn't but half way up!"

      Beyond that point his difficulties began. The cliff was bolder; it was almost bare of those little ledges and crevices and projections upon which the cliff-climber depends for handhold and foothold. Moreover, the path was interrupted from time to time by sheer or overhanging rock. When he came to these impassable places, of course, he turned to right or left, content with his progress if only he mounted higher and higher. Thus he strayed far off the path he had picked out from Nanny's Rock; indeed, he was climbing blindly, a thoughtless course, for – had he but stopped to think – there was no knowing that the cliff did not overhang at the end of the way he had taken.

      Meanwhile, time was passing. He had climbed with such caution, retraced his steps, changed his course so often that noon was long past. So when next he came to a roomy ledge he sat down to rest before proceeding farther.

      "Wonderful queer!" he thought, after a look about. "But where is I?"

      It was a puzzling question. The cliff, projecting below him, cut off his view of the breakers; and the rock above, which came to an end in blue sky, was of course unfamiliar. At what part of Shag Rock he then was he could not tell.

      CHAPTER VI

      In Which Billy Topsail Loses His Nerve. Wherein, also, the Wings of Gulls Seem to Brush Past

      "WONDERFUL queer!" thought Billy Topsail. "Lost on a cliff! 'Tis the queerest thing I ever knowed."

      But that was Billy's case.

      "I 'low," he concluded, at last, "that I'd better be goin' up instead o' down."

      It did not appear that he would be unable to go down; the way up was the shorter way, that was all. Nevertheless, his feeling of security was pretty well shaken when he again began to climb. His grip was tighter, his shrinking from the depths stronger and more frequent; in fact, he hugged the rock more than was good for him.

      He knew the symptom for an alarming one – it turned him faint when first he recognized it – and he tried to fix his attention upon the effort to climb higher. But now and again the fear of the space behind and below would creep in. Reason told him that the better part was to return; but he was in no condition to listen to reason. His whole desire – it was fast becoming frantic – was to crawl over the brow of the cliff and be safe.

      But where was the brow of the cliff? It seemed to him that he had climbed a thousand feet.

      A few minutes later he caught sight of a shrub; then he knew that he was within a few feet of the end of the climb. The shrub – a stunted spruce, which he had good reason to remember – was to his right, peeping round a projection of rock.

      He was then on a ledge, with good foothold and good handhold; and a way of return to the shore lay open to him. By craning his neck he made out that if he could pass that projection he would reach shelving, broken rock, and be safe. Then he studied the face of the rocks between – a space of some six feet.

      There was foothold there, midway, but he shrank from attempting to reach it. He had never thought in his life to try so perilous a passage. A survey of the course of a body falling from that point was almost more than he could support. Nevertheless, strange as it may seem, the waving shrub tempted him to risk something more to end his suspense. He summoned courage enough to stretch out his right foot and search with his right hand for a hold.

      Unfortunately, he found both – a ledge for his foot and a crevice for his fingers.

      He drew himself over. It took courage and strength, for it was a long stretch. Had he been cramped for room, had he not been free to move at the starting-point, he could not have managed it. But there he was – both feet on a ledge as wide as his feet were long, both hands with a comfortable grip on solid rock. He shuffled along until he came to the end of the ledge.

      His last obstacle now lay before him. He must round the projection which divided him from the broken, shelving rock beyond. Had he foreseen the slightest difficulty he would not have gone so far. So, with confidence, he sought a foothold for his right foot – a crevice for the fingers of his right hand.

      And he tried again, with confidence unshaken; again, with patience; again, with rising fear. There was no hold; the passage was impracticable. There was nothing for it but to return.

      So he shuffled back to the other end of the ledge. Then, keenly regretting the necessity of return, he sought a foothold for his left foot – a crevice for the fingers of his left hand. He tried again, in some wonder; again, with a rush of fear; again, in abject terror.

      To his horror, he found that he could not return. From the narrow ledge it was impossible to pass to the wider, although it had been possible to pass from the wider to the narrow. For an instant he was on the point of toppling back; but he let his body fall forward against the face of the cliff, and there he rested, gripping the rock with both hands until the faintness passed.

      The situation was quite plain to him. He was standing on a ledge, as wide as his feet were long, some two or three hundred feet above the sea; his face was to the cliff, and he could neither sit down nor turn round. There he must stand until – who could tell? In what way could relief come to him? Who was to see? Who could hear his cries for help? No fishermen were on the grounds – no punts were out of the harbour; the sea was too high for that, as he had been told.

      There was only one answer to his question. He must stand until – he fell.

      "Yes," he was courageous enough to admit calmly, "I 'low I got t' go."

      That once admitted, his terror of that space behind and below in some measure departed. The sun was still shining; the sky – as he knew, for he could catch a glimpse of it on each side – was still blue. But soon he began to think of the night; then his terror returned – not of the present moment, but of the hours of darkness approaching.

      Could he endure until night? He thought not. His position was awkward. Surely his strength would wear out – his hands weaken, although the strain upon them was slight; his legs give way.

      Of course he followed the natural impulse to cling to his life as long as he could. Thus, while the afternoon dragged along and the dusk approached, he stood on the face of the cliff, waiting for the moment when his weakening strength would fail and he would fall to his death.

      "In an hour," he thought; soon it was, "In half an hour."

      Before that last half-hour had passed he felt something brush past his back. It frightened him. What was it? Again he felt it. Again it startled and frightened him. Then he felt it no more for a time, and he was glad of that. He was too dull, perhaps, to dwell upon the mystery of that touch. It passed from his mind. Soon he felt it for the third time. Was it a wing? He wondered, too, if he had not heard a voice; for it seemed to him that some one had hailed him.

      When next he heard the sound, he knew that his name had been called. He looked up. A rope was hanging over the brow of the cliff, sweeping slowly towards him. He could see it, although the light was failing. When it came near he extended