Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern DiplomacyWells, David Dwight
General
Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy
Wells, David Dwight
Diplomats -- Fiction
He had noticed, when taking his precarious walk along the edge of the
battlements, that an old rusty iron chain was loosely twisted round the
bar which stretched across the diameter of the well, about on a level
with where he hung suspended. It might be possible, springing into the
air, to catch the end of this chain, which terminated in a ring. He had
done that sort of thing more than once in gymnasiums, though under very
much more favourable conditions. Even if he succeeded in catching the
ring in his flight, he might only find himself in a worse position. The
chain might refuse to unwind from the bar, or the whole contrivance,
rusted by years of exposure, might snap under his weight. But even if
this were so, he reflected, he could but drop to the bottom of the well,
which he was bound to do in any event, if he stayed where he was, while
every foot that the chain unrolled before breaking was twelve inches
less for him to fall. Evidently there was not an instant to lose, for
his fingers were already getting stiff and numb with the tension they
were undergoing. So, setting his teeth, he sprang into the air, on this
last desperate venture. For one horrid second he felt the ring which his
fingers touched, slipping through his grasp. Then with one supreme
effort, he crooked his hand through it, and swung suspended by one arm.
A moment later, he had brought his other hand to his aid. But scarcely
had he steadied himself, when the bar, round which the chain was wound,
and which evidently worked in a socket, began to revolve. It was rusty
and out of gear, and as it let him down, it gave him the most frightful
series of jerks, which seemed to dislocate every bone in his body. It
would let out three or four feet of chain at lightning speed, and then,
catching in its rusty gearings, would stop with a racking jerk,
remaining still perhaps a whole minute, before it moved on again, to
repeat the operation. Moreover, as he got farther and farther down the
well, and there was a greater length of chain above him, it began to
oscillate frightfully, twirling him round in one direction till his head
swam, and then reversing the operation. All tortures must come to an
end, however, and when he was ten feet from the bottom of the well, a
corroded link snapped, and he dropped the remaining distance like a log,
bringing down thirty feet of iron chain on top of him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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