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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Why doesn't he say something?" cried the Professor, unable to restrain his impatience longer, bis overwrought nerves almost at the breaking point. "Keep still! Don't bother him. The boy's doing the best he can. Mebby you think he's having some sort of a picnic down there, eh?" glared Lige. "A l l right!" Tad's voice, now strong and clear, rose from the depths of the canyou.
Lige shortened the hitch about the tree, until the line drew taut. After winding the end tightly about his own arm, he handed a lighted torch to Tad. It was a trying moment for all of them, and naturally more so for the boy who was about to descend into the unknown depths of the mountain canyou. "Right!" announced the guide in a reassuring voice.
This gentleman has, also, written and published several small volumes of a religious character; a pamphlet on the Episcopacy and Infant Baptism, and the Lives of Reverends Fayette Davis and David Canyou. There is now a little paper, the name of which we cannot recollect, issued at Newark, N.J., merely a local paper, very meager in appearance.
"Better lie down so you, too, don't take a notion to fall off. Keep your eyes shut till I tell you to open them." Slowly, but steadily, the slender line was paid out, amid a tense silence on the part of the little group at the top of the canyou. After what seemed to them hours, a sharp call from the depths reached their ears. Lige quickly made fast the line to a tree. "Yes?
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