Jacob Gray could see that the mob was very much amused at something, but what it could be he had no means of knowing, for the same obstacle, in the shape of a projecting parapet, which prevented the old lady from seeing him, also prevented him from seeing her. He endeavoured to crawl round an angle of a roof and escape, observation while the altercation was going on; but neither the baker’s boy nor a sweep who had joined his persecutors, would permit such a thing for a moment, and they at once called out,—
“There he goes—there he goes!”
“What do you mean?” screamed the old lady to the sweep.
“There’s a poll parrot, mum, a-top o’ your house,” replied the sweep.
“A what?” screamed she leaning as far out of the window as she could, and looking up.
“Mind yer eye, mum,” shrieked the baker’s boy, and amid a perfect roar of laughter, the old lady withdrew her head in a moment.
“You—you little abominable miscreant,” she cried, “I’ll come down to you!”
“Thank you, mum.”
“There’s a man on the roof,” said some one near.
“A man?”