Wesley slipped down the hill to the nearest bush. His neighbors came
together and held a whispered discourse. They viewed the barrier with
marked patience, it seemed; they sat down in friendly fashion and
smoked cigarette after cigarette; the hum of their hushed voices
reached Pringle, murmuring and indistinct. It might almost be thought
that they were willing for others to precede them in the place of
honor. A faint glow showed in the east; the moon had thoughts of
rising.

After an interminable half-hour the two worthies passed on to the
right. Pringle took to the left, more swiftly. Time for caution
had passed; moonlight might betray him. When he found a way up that
unlucky wall others of the search party farther to the left were well
beyond him.

Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the last sheer cliff, the Thumb
which gave the hill its name, frowned above him, a hundred feet from
base to crest. Pringle bore obliquely up to the right. Speed was his
best safety now; he pushed on boldly, cheered by the thought that
if seen by any of the posse he would be taken for one of their own
number. But Foy, seeing him, would make the same mistake! It was an
uncomfortable reflection.

The pitch was less abrupt now, and there were no more ledges; instead,
bowlders were strewn along the rounded slope, with bush and stunted
tree between. Through these Pringle breasted his way, seeking even
more to protect himself from above than from below, forced at times to
crawl through an open space exposed to possible fire from both sides;
so came at last to the masses of splintered and broken rock at the
foot of the cliff, where he sank breathless and panting.