An hour’s labor enabled them to insert the bayonet to the handle and wedge it with spikes split off from the precious wood of the paddles.  When it seemed firm enough to support a strong lateral pressure, Glover knotted on to it, in his deft sailor fashion, a strip of the horse hide, and added others to that until he had a cord of some forty feet.  After testing every inch and every knot, he said:  “Who starts first?”

“I will try it,” answered Thurstane.

“Lightest first, I reckon,” observed Glover.

Sweeny looked at the precipice, skipped about the shelf uneasily, made a struggle with his fears, and asked, “Will ye let me down aisy?”

“Jest ’s easy ‘s rollin’ off a log.”

“That’s aisy enough.  It’s the lightin’ that’s har-rd.  If it comes to rowlin’ down, I’ll let ye have the first rowl.  I’ve no moind to git ahead of me betthers.”

“Try it, my lad,” said Thurstane.  “The real danger comes with the last man.  He will have to trust to the bayonet alone.”

“An’ what’ll I do whirl I get down there?”

“Take the traps off the cord as we send them down, and pile them on the rock.”

“I’m off,” said Sweeny, after one more look into the chasm.  While the others held the cord to keep the strain from coming on the bayonet, he gripped it with both hands, edged stern foremost over the precipice, and slipped rapidly to the bowlder, whence he sent up a hoot of exultation.  The cord was drawn back; the boat was made up in two bundles, which were lowered in succession; then the provisions, paddles, arms, etc.  Now came the question whether Thurstane or Glover should remain last on the ledge.

“Lightest last,” said the lean skipper.  “Stands to reason.”

“It’s my duty to take the hot end of the poker,” replied the officer.  “Loser goes first,” said Glover, producing a copper.  “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” guessed Thurstane.

“It’s a tail.  Catch hold, Capm.  Slow ‘n’ easy till you get over.”

The cord holding firm, Thurstane reached the bowlder, and was presently joined by Glover.

“Liftinant, I want me bagonet,” cried Sweeny.  “Will I go up afther it?”

“How the dickens ’d you git down again?” asked Glover.  “Guess you’ll have to leave your bayonet where it sticks.  But, Capm, we want that line.  Can’t you shute it away, clost by th’ edge?”

The third shot was a lucky one, and brought down the precious cord.  Then came the work of putting the boat into shape, launching it, getting in the stores, and lastly the voyagers.

“Tight’s a drum yit,” observed Glover, surveying the coracle admiringly.  “Fust time I ever sailed on canvas.  Great notion.  Don’t draw more’n three inches.  Might sail acrost country with it.  Capm, it’s the only boat ever invented that could git down this blasted river.”

Glover and Sweeny, two of the most talkative creatures on earth, chattered much to each other.  Thurstane sometimes listened to them, sometimes lost himself in reveries about Clara, sometimes surveyed the scenery of the canon.