“Let’s see,” he replied, “you’ve seen the town hall and the old powder mill, my rabbits, the bridge, and the lake. Yes, he’s seen everything, father.”
“But he hasn’t been up the tower yet!” put in Jack Grafton, a young imp of ten summers—and other seasons—who faithfully followed his brother and myself about wherever we went.
Mr. Grafton’s beautiful country house was built of stone, with a tower at one corner. This tower was very high and intersected with little windows here and there.
“No, that he hasn’t!” exclaimed Harry, pleased at the idea of having something else left to show me. “If you’ll let me have the keys, father, we’ll go at once.”
Mr. Grafton hesitated before procuring the needful keys.
“You must be very careful,” he said; “and, Harry, my boy, you mustn’t play any foolhardy pranks up there. Jack, I shan’t allow you to go at all.”
Jack looked doleful as Mr. Grafton handed over the keys to his eldest son, who promptly led the way to the tower.
With some difficulty Harry opened the massive door of the edifice, and just as we were commencing our ascent on the spiral staircase we heard a patter of small feet behind us, and, on looking round, observed that Jack, unknown to his father, had managed to get into the tower as well, by means, as he explained, of a side door which had been left open by some servant.
At first his elder brother was for sending him back, but the little chap pleaded so hard to be allowed to accompany us, that at length Harry yielded to his entreaties,[{51}] and we continued our journey up the tower, Harry leading the way, myself next, and Jack last.
After a toilsome and dusty climb, we at length emerged on the roof of the tower, from which post of vantage we could see the country for many miles round.