“Arch was belly foremost t’ the cliff—toes on a ledge an’ hands gripped aloft. He was able t’ look up, but made poor work o’ lookin’ down over his shoulder; an’ I ’lowed, him not bein’ able t’ see Jim, that the minute he reached out a foot he’d be cotched an’ ripped from his hold, if Jim really wanted t’ do it. Anyhow, he got his fingers in a lower crack. ’Twas a wonderful strain t’ put on any man’s hands an’ arms: I could see his forearms shake along of it. But safe at this, he loosed one foot from the ledge, let his body sink, an’ begun t’ kick out after Jim, jus’ feelin’ about like a blind man, with his face jammed again’ the rock. Jus’ in a minute Jim reached for that foot. Cotched it, too; but no sooner did Arch feel them fingers closin’ in than he kicked out for life an’ got loose. The wrench near overset Jim. He made a quick grab for the rock an’ got a hand there jus’ in time. Jim laughed. It may be that he thunk Arch would be satisfied an’ draw up t’ rest. But Arch ’lowed for one more kick; an’ this, sir, cotched Slow Jim Tool fair on the cheek when poor Jim wasn’t lookin’. Must o’ hurt Jim. When his head fell back, his face was all screwed up, jus’ like a child’s in pain. I seed, too, that his muscles was slack, his knees givin’ way, an’ that his right hand, with the fingers spread out crooked, was clawin’ for a hold, ecod! out in the air, where they wasn’t nothin’ but thin wind t’ grasp. Then I didn’t see no more, but jus’ lied flat on the moss, my eyes fallen shut, limp an’ sweaty o’ body, waitin’ t’ come to, as from the grip o’ the Old Hag. “When I looked again, sir, Archibald Shott had both feet toed back on the ledge, an’ Slow Jim Tool, below, was still stickin’ like a barnacle t’ the cliff. “‘Jim,’ says I, ‘if you don’t stop this foolishness I’ll drop a rock on you.’ “‘This won’t do,’ says he. “‘No,’ says I; ‘it _won’t_!’ “‘I ’low, Tumm,’ says he, ‘that I better swarm above an’ come down.’ “‘What for?’ says I. “‘Step on his fingers,’ says he.