“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘it looks t’ me as if he’d be content jus’ t’ keep on goin’.’ “In this way, sir, I come t’ the top o’ the cliff. They _was_ signs o’ weather—a black sky, puffs o’ wind jumpin’ out, scattered flakes o’ snow—but they wasn’t no sign o’ Archibald Shott. They was quite a reach o’ brink, sir, high enough from the shore ice t’ make a stomach squirm; an’ it took a deal o’ peepin’ an’ stretchin’ t’ spy out Arch an’ Jim. Then I ’lowed that Arch never _would_ get over; for I seed, sir—lyin’ there on the edge o’ the cliff, with more head an’ shoulders stickin’ out in space than I cares t’ dream about o’ these quiet nights—I seed that Archibald Shott was cotched an’ could get no further. There he was, sir, stickin’ like plaster t’ the face o’ the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an’ feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old corpse. I sung out a hearty word—though, God knows! my heart was empty o’ cheer—an’ I heard some words rattle in Shott’s dry throat, but couldn’t understand; an’ then, sir, overcome by space an’ that face o’ fear, I rolled back on the frozen moss, sick an’ limp. When I looked again I seed, so far below that they looked like fat swile on the ice, the skipper an’ the crew o’ the _Billy Boy_, starin’ up, with the floe an’ black sea beyond, lyin’ like a steep hill under the gray sky. Midway, swarmin’ up with cautious hands an’ feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white an’ cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, his muscles as tense an’ eager, as a brute’s on the hunt. “‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Oh, Jim!’ “Jim jus’ come on up. “‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Is that _you_?’ “Seemed, sir, it jus’ _couldn’t_ be. Not _Jim_! Why, I _nursed_ Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t’ the ceilin’ when he was a mushy infant too young t’ do any more’n jus’ gurgle. Why, at that minute, sir, like a dream in the gray space below, I could see Jimmie Tool’s yellow head an’ fat white legs an’ calico dresses, jus’ as they used t’ be. “‘Jim,’ says I, ‘it can’t be you. Not you, Jim,’ says I; ‘not _you_!’ “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is he stuck? Can’t he get no farther?’ “Jim! “‘If he can’t,’ says he, ‘I got un! I’ll knife un, Tumm,’ says he, ‘jus’ in a minute.’ “‘Don’t try it,’ says I. “‘Don’t you fret, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Isn’t no fear o’ _me_ fallin’. _I’m_ all right.’