The owner of the legs began to make a desperate effort to withdraw them, and they kicked about in a variety of peculiar evolutions; but before they could be extricated, Peter had climbed up to an oaken beam, which formed one of the roof ties, and from there reached out and seized one of the legs by the ankle.
“I’ve got him,” he cried gleefully. “Which shall we do, sir—pull him through, or get the ladder up to the roof and drag him out?”
“Here, Daniel! Come up,” said the doctor.
The old gardener came up eagerly; and one of his cast-iron grins expanded his face as he grasped the situation.
“Brayvo, Peter!” he cried. “That’s the way to ketch a ghost. Hold him tight, lad!”
The doctor smiled.
“Don’t let them hurt him, papa,” whispered Helen.
“Oh no; they shall not hurt him,” said the doctor quietly. Then, raising his voice—“Now, sir, will you come down quietly, or shall I send for the police to drag you out on to the roof?”
An indistinct murmur came down, after a vigorous struggle to get free.
“Woho! Woho, kicker!” cried Peter, speaking as if to a horse.