“No, it wouldn’t,” shouted Tom; “the rope would run through the broken-away corner.”
“Nonsense, it is impossible. The place must go.”
Whoo! came the wind again; and once more it seemed as if the roof was to be lifted off like a gigantic umbrella, and carried far away by the storm.
“I must go and do it,” cried Tom.
“No, no, no!” shouted Uncle Richard. “Let’s go down—we may be hurt.”
“Uncle, the telescope!—all our work! Oh, I can’t come away.”
“But it is risking your life, boy.”
“’Tisn’t, uncle,” cried Tom desperately. “You can hold me tightly with the rope. I should put some nails in my pocket—so, and stick the hammer handle down inside my jacket—so, and then climb out quickly while you held tightly by the rope, and—Just like this, uncle.”
And before he could be checked, Tom stepped to the opening, and with the rapidity born of habit lifted himself out, and then holding on by the sill, lowered his legs into the little gallery.
Uncle Richard darted forward to seize him, but another terrific blast struck the mill, pinning Tom against the woodwork, and literally driving his uncle back from the opening, while the telescope swung round upon its pivot, and various objects were blown to the far side.