Ten minutes later the boy turned a white face to the expectant babes behind him. He and Sandy had pushed with all their might at the little iron door, which had so easily admitted them to the roof. It was fast and firm—locked up securely for the night—and they were prisoners. Probably they would not be released until the workmen arrived in the morning.
"I wouldn't mind, if we could let mother know, not to be frightened," the boy said, "and Barbie's father. Think, Sandy; couldn't we let 'em know?"
Sandy desisted from fruitless bangings on the door, propped his elbows on the parapet, and put his head between his hands in the most approved attitude of thinking. Possibly, this attitude was useful for another purpose than thinking. Sandy was only seven, but he had a fervent belief in his mother's fragility, and in the power of himself and his brothers to keep her laughing presence on her sofa or to banish her elsewhere. He had heard things said which made him realise that a very little thing might transfer her to a narrower couch—in a sunny, railed-off corner just under the cathedral walls. Already a little white stone marked the resting-place of "Archibald, aged one year." Sandy sometimes pitied Archibald for being all by himself there. He had one day suggested to his mother that "P'r'aps one of us ought to go and mind him—as he was so little." For answer, the mother had gathered the bright head on to her breast, fervently breathing, "No, Sandy, mother can't let one go, not the very littlest bit of any of you. God is minding little Archie better than we can."
So up there in the air, within sight of the familiar garden—within sound almost of the mother who as yet was not concerned about him—her little son may be excused if, in process of his thinking, he blinked away a tear. The responsibility was so great. This had been his scheme more than David's. And there was Barbie's father, too. But he wasted no sentiment on him.
"My finks is all in a mess," he said at last, lifting his face. "On'y we must signal. It's like a desert island up here. P'r'aps we might frow down something."
The gathering darkness, alas! hid the fluttering signal which, after some protestations from Barbara, they tied to a carved projection. It was the longest thing they had about them. How tiny it looked up there, they did not realise.
The little feet were growing weary, the "family" by this time were showing signs of restive discontent.
"Ain't we got no beds in this home?" asked Ross, his hands in his pockets, his legs wide apart, surveying the leads, of whose hardness he had made ample trial.