“I doubt we’re not out of it here,” whispered the sergeant to Tom. He cast his light through the doorway. “See, the water mounts quickly. ’Twill be on us, and we mun drown like rats in a hole.”
“Can you swim?” asked Tom, under his breath.
The sergeant nodded.
“Doff your boots; keep your cloak and breeches nothing else. Get into that corner. Give me the light. Don’t let them see you doff. They’re fleyed enough.”
There was no time even for suspense. The water was already in the attic. Tom dragged a bed beneath the skylight and with a blow from his stick shivered the thick glass.
“Yo’ mun get through th’ skylight, Ramsden,” he bawled. The turmoil of the waters drowned all lower speech. “I’ll pass t’others to you.”
Ramsden nodded. The habit of discipline is invaluable in the hour of emergency. Tom had taken the command even in his old master’s house, and it seemed natural that he should order and others obey.
With difficulty he twisted the portly constable through the aperture. It was a tight squeeze.
“Tear up some of the slates. Widen th’ hole,” shouted Tom, as he dragged a trunk to the top of the bed to stand on. “Now Dorothy,” he whispered, “you next.”
“No, uncle,” she said, drawing back. This was no hour for ceremony. Tom almost lifted Mr. Tinker bodily on to the trunk, the sergeant from above seized his wrists, and Tom, with a mighty heave, hoisted him aloft.