Better lay the rifle on the edge, slip over, hang by the hands, grab it with one, and then drop the intervening few inches.  Rubber soles would play their part here!  Damn this giddiness—­touch of sun, no doubt.  Damocles de Warrenne knelt on the edge of the eight-foot drop, turned round, swayed, fell, struck the sloping ledge, rolled off it, fell, struck the next sloping ledge, fell thirty feet—­arousing an astounded ibex en route—­and landed in a queer heap on a third shelf, with a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, broken ankles, and a fractured thigh.

A vulture, who had been interested in his proceedings for some time, dropped a few thousand feet and had a look.  What he saw decided him to come to earth.  He perched on a rock and waited patiently.  He knew the symptoms and he knew the folly of taking risks.  A friend or two joined him—­each, as he left his place in the sky, being observed and followed by a brother who was himself in turn observed and followed by another who brought others....

One of the hideous band had drawn quite near and was meditating rewarding his own boldness with a succulent eye, when Dam groaned and moved.  The pretty birds also moved and probably groaned in spirit—­but they didn’t move far.

What was that Miss Smellie had been so fond of saying?  “There is no such thing as ‘luck,’ Damocles.  All is ordered for the best by an all-seeing and merciful Providence.”  Yes.  No doubt.

What was that remark of his old friend, “Holy Bill”?

“What do you mean by ‘luck,’ Damocles?  All that happens is ordained by God in His infinite mercy.”  Yes.

Holy Bill had never done a day’s work in his life nor missed a meal—­save when bilious from overeating....

A pity the infinite mercy didn’t run to a little water!  It would have been easy for the all-seeing and merciful Providence to move him to retain his water-bottle when starting the stalk—­if it were necessary to the schemes of the Deity to have him smashed like a dropped egg....  What agony a human being could endure!...

Not even his rifle at hand with its means of speedy death.  He might live for days and then be torn alive by those accursed vultures.  One mighty effort to turn on his back and he would breathe easier—­but that would bring his eyes to the sun—­and the vultures....  Had he slept or fainted?  How long had he lain there?...  Chance of being found?  Absolutely none.  Shikarri would have visited the dak-bungalow a week ago.  Camel left below on the plain—­and it would wander miles from where he left it when it grew hungry.  Even if Abdul and an organized search-party were after him now they might as well be searching for a needle in a hay-stack.  No one knew which of the thousand gullies he had ascended and no one could track camel-pads or flat rubber soles over bare solid rock, even if given the starting-point.  No—­he had got to die of thirst, starvation, and vultures, barring miracles of luck—­and he had never had any good luck—­for luck existed, undoubtedly, in spite of mealy-mouthed platitude-makers and twaddle about everything being pre-arranged and ordained with care and deliberation by a kind paternal Providence.