“For the last time!” he said to himself, and a great sigh came unbidden from his breast.
A quarter to twelve.
Dexter waited till the last stroke on the bell was thrilling in the air before setting his cap on tightly, and passing one leg over the sill.
He sat astride for a few moments, hesitating for the last time, and then passed the other leg, and lowered himself down till he hung by his hands, then twisted his legs about the rope, seized it with first one hand then the other, and hung by it with his whole weight, in the precarious position of one trusting to an old doubled clothes-line, suspended from a second-floor window.
It was hard work that descent, for he could not slide on account of the knots; and, to make his position more awkward, the rope began to untwist—one line from the other,—and, in consequence, as the boy descended slowly, he bore no small resemblance to a leg of mutton turning before a fire.
That was the only mishap which occurred to him then, for after resting for a few moments upon the first-floor sill he continued his journey, and reached the bottom in the midst of a great laurel, which rustled loudly as he tried to get out, and then tripped over a horizontal branch, and fell flat.
He was up again in an instant, and, trembling and panting, made a couple of bounds which took him over the gravel walk and on to the lawn, where he stood panting and listening.
There was a light in the doctor’s room, and one in Helen’s; and just then the doctor’s shadow, looking horribly threatening, was thrown upon the blind.
He must be coming, Dexter thought, and, turning quickly, he sped down the lawn, avoiding the flower-beds by instinct, and the next minute had reached the kitchen-garden, down whose winding green walk he rapidly made his way.