The water was all of knee-depth over the bar, but Joe waded in without hesitation. They were none of them shod properly for the wading of the stream; but their personal discomfort—or, indeed, their personal peril in any way—did not enter into their consideration in this emergency. Two girls were somewhere up there among the rocks, harassed by the storm and in danger of their lives. The men’s job was to get them. The ice—it was more than mere sleet that whipped them so unmercifully—cut such parts of their faces as were bare, needle sharp and stinging. From under the peak of his cap each man could now see scarcely a yard before him. They stumbled on as though they were in an unlighted cavern. Once Joe stepped off the track and plunged waist deep in a hole. Hunt hauled him back by the rope, and after a moment they went on again. They reached the farther bank and stumbled up the sleet-covered strand, standing in a group together for a minute to get their breath and to ease the binding-rope about their bodies. “I reckon I can smell out the path, boys,” said their leader, so they started off again. As they pressed upward, now and then they shouted—sometimes in unison. But their voices could not penetrate the gale far. The sounds were blown back into their faces as though rebounding from a blank wall. At a point some distance up the path Hurley halted again and allowed the others to approach. He bawled at them: “There’s a place yonder somewhere under the cliff—I remember it—a half-shelter. They might have reached it.” “Don’t get off the path, Joe!” warned Jib Collins. “But if the girls got off the path?” “We don’t want to lose our way,” objected Mack. “I’m going to take a look!” ejaculated Hurley obstinately. But he could not untie the knot which held him. He fumbled at it. “Got a knife, Willie?” The parson had already drawn out his pocket-knife. But he slashed the rope between Collins and himself. “I’m going with you, Joe,” he declared. “Keep shoutin’!” bawled Collins, as the two younger men started off at a tangent from the path. The bowlders were glassed with ice. The two friends floundered and slipped about in an awkward way, straining themselves enormously and not seldom falling. The one aided the other. It was fortunate, Hunt realized, that they had come together, for one man alone could never have accomplished the journey to the sheer wall of the cliff. Of a sudden there seemed to be a lull in the gale. Really, they had reached a more sheltered spot. The storm sang around them, but they were not so terribly buffeted. Joe shouted again: “Nell! Nell Blossom! Betty!” Hunt joined his voice to that of his friend. They continued to bellow the girls’ names. Hurley grabbed the parson’s arm suddenly. “Hush!” There was a response. A wailing voice replied. “It’s Betty! Your sister!” shouted Joe, and plunged forward, half-dragging the equally excited Hunt with him.