with pain as his toes struck a sharper flint, once or twice sitting
down on a boulder to blow like a whale, once slipping on his knees
and wetting the strange excrescence about his middle, which was his
tucked-up waterproof. But the crossing was at length achieved,
and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried himself perfunctorily and hastily
put on his garments. Old Bill, who seemed to be regardless of wind
or water, squatted beside him and whistled through his teeth.

Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Huntingtower cape, so sheer
that a man below was completely hidden from any watcher on the top.
Dickson's heart fell, for he did not profess to be a cragsman and had
indeed a horror of precipitous places. But as the two scrambled
along the foot, they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of
them unclimbable, but offering something more hopeful than the face.
At one of these Old Bill halted, and led the way up and over a chaos
of fallen rock and loose sand. The grey weather had brought on the
dark prematurely, and in the half-light it seemed that this ravine
was blocked by an unscalable nose of rock. Here Old Bill whistled,
and there was a reply from above. Round the corner of the nose
came Dougal.

"Up here," he commanded. "It was Mr. Heritage that fund this road."

Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves between the nose and
the cliff up a spout of stones, and found themselves in an upper
storey of the gulley, very steep, but practicable even for one
who was no cragsman. This in turn ran out against a wall up which
there led only a narrow chimney. At the foot of this were two of
the Die-Hards, and there were others above, for a rope hung down,
by the aid of which a package was even now ascending.