“Comin’, sir,” shouted the boy, trying hard to untie himself, but in vain, although, after a couple more calls, he could hear the reascending steps of his employer. He twisted, he turned, he struggled, but he was like a mouse in a wire-trap; it was easy to get into his present state, but extrication seemed impossible.
Higher came the steps, and the boy struggled more violently than ever to free himself, till, just as Jared reached the door of the organ loft, the unpractised tumbler rolled over upon his back and stared with upturned eyes over his forehead at the organist.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed Jared, “what a dreadful contortion. The boy must be in a fit.”
“No, I ain’t,” blubbered ’Bod. “I’m only stuck.”
“Stuck!” exclaimed Jared.
“Yes, stuck,” whimpered the boy. “Can’t get my legs back ’cause I’ve got shoes on.”
“Stuck—shoes on,” repeated Jared, in a puzzled way.
“Yes, sir,” wept ’Bod, “and if you’ll pull down one, I can do t’other myself.”
Jared stared at the imp for a few moments as if he took him for a sort of human treble clef, then seizing the uppermost leg, he set it at liberty, and the boy reduced himself to ordinary proportions, standing erect, with one arm raised ready to ward off the expected blow.
“How dare you play such tricks as that in the church, sir?” cried Jared. “Suppose that you had become fixed—what then?”