“Westby! Westby! Stop that!” Irving’s voice was shrill with anger.
Allison became stationary once more, and Westby displayed an innocent, surprised face at the loft opening.
“If there is any more nonsense in letting Allison down, I shall really have to report you.” Irving’s voice rose tremulously to a high key; he was trying hard to control it.
Westby gazed down with surprise. “Why, I guess I must have turned the crank the wrong way, don’t you suppose I did, Mr. Upton?—Don’t worry, Allison, old man; I’ll rescue you, never fear. I’ll try to lower you gently, so that you won’t get hurt; you’ll call out if you find you’re coming down too fast, won’t you?”
He withdrew his head, and presently the ratchet wheel clicked and slowly, very slowly, Allison began to descend. When his feet were a couple of inches from the floor, the descent stopped.
“All right now?” called Westby from above.
“No!” bawled Allison.
“Ve-ry gently then, ve-ry gently,” replied Westby; and Allison, reaching for the floor with his toes, had at last the satisfaction of feeling it. He wriggled out of the noose and smoothed out his rumpled coat.
“Saved!” exclaimed Westby, peering down from the opening, and then he added sorrowfully, “Saved, and no word of gratitude to his rescuer!”
“Now, boys, don’t stand round here any longer; we’ve had enough nonsense; go to your rooms,” said Irving.