“So young and so inexorable!” murmured Westby, setting his foot upon the ladder.
Irving’s face was red; the tittering of the audience was making him angry. He held his eyes on Westby, who made a slow, grunting progress up three rungs and then stopped.
“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” Westby’s voice was ingratiating. “Mayn’t Allison sing for us, sir?”
Allison grinned again foolishly and sent a sprawling foot out towards his persecutor; the others laughed.
“Keep on climbing,” said Irving.
Westby resumed his toilsome way, and as he moved he kept murmuring remarks to Allison, to the others, to Irving himself, half audible, rapid, in an aggrieved tone.
“Don’t see why you want to be conspicuous this way, Allison.—Won’t sing—amuse anybody—ornamental, I suppose—good timekeeper though—almost hear you tick. Mr. Upton—setting watch by you now—awfully severe kind of man—”
So mumbling, with the responsive titter still continuing below and Irving standing there stern and red, Westby disappeared into the loft. There was a moment’s silence, then a sudden clicking of a ratchet wheel, and Allison began to rise rapidly towards the ceiling.
“A-ay!” cried Allison in amazement.
The boys burst out in delighted laughter.