The bird had fallen in such a position that it lay out on the very edge
of the hollow, thus making Artie’s descent less precarious.
Westy helped him over until Artie’s feet pointed directly to the center.
Letting himself slowly down, he landed finally with a thump, safe and
sound. Taking a cautious view of his present situation, he thought it
looked like a box seat in a theater, the precipice forming a protective
roof overhead. One of even medium stature could not stand upright in
this haven of rock, so sequestered from all the world.
“Hey, Art, make it snappy, will you?” called Westy impatiently. “This
isn’t the time to dream!”
Artie leaned forward and touched the inert bird with his finger. It did
not move. He repeated the action to make sure. Then, he lifted it
slowly, gently, and ever so cautiously with both hands, but was
convinced that he had nothing whatsoever to fear from that source.
His next move was to lift the bird high enough so that Westy (who was
hanging perilously over the edge with outstretched hands) could grasp
it. To do this, it was necessary for him to step out on the tip-end of
the ledge, where there was a slight eminence. From there he thought he
could reach up to Westy’s dangling fingers without having to release his
hold on the helpless bird at all.
Artie realized as he pondered over the wisdom of this, that one misstep
meant--eternity. Holding his breath and with a firm resolve not to look
out nor down, he concentrated his mind solely on his two feet. He
quickly mounted the jagged edge, clasping the bird tight with both
hands.
“All set?” he cried to Westy excitedly. “You’ll have to grab it quick
for I won’t be able to keep my balance for long.”
“Righto!” answered Westy, sensing the peril of both, but putting all of
his courage in each of his hands, he leaned as far over as he possibly
could, without throwing himself over altogether.
They both reached, but, alas, came about within three inches of making
it.
“I can’t, Wes, it’s no use,” Artie cried, “it just can’t be done!” He
was feeling sick now from the suspense.
“Could you just throw it easy, Art? Try it! I won’t miss it and this
little distance won’t hurt it any more than it has been hurt!”
“Sure--anything, so long as I get off from here.”
Artie tried to steady himself once more. Then as lightly as possible he
tossed it to Westy, who caught it, surprisingly gentle.
Seeing Westy slowly but surely drawing himself back again upon terra
firma, Artie, with a dizziness amounting almost to nausea, stepped down
from that Pinnacle of Destiny and into safety.
Unashamed, he wiped the perspiration from off his face and sat down in
the hollow a minute to regain his composure.
“Well!” he called to Westy. “I’m down, but how am I going to get out?”
“What were you saying, Art?” Westy shouted from above.
Artie repeated his question.
“Why you can get out the same way as you got in, can’t you?”
“Not so’s you can notice it!”
“Why not?”
“Why? Just because there isn’t a place for me to get a foothold on the
whole darn precipice; it’s just as smooth as glass.”