“May we help you in any respect, John?” inquired Winslow.
“Are you fastened in?” added Simon Bradstreet.
“Might we not pull him down?” suggested Wainsworth.
“My friends, how many be you?” said the hot, muffled voice of John.
“Five,” said one of the solemn governors. “Shall we give you a little assistance?”
“It would only be a little I should want,” said the carpenter, dropping the nails he had clung to in desperation.
The five gentlemen disposed themselves about John’s anatomy and pulled at his legs with united strength, grasping the cloth of his trousers for the purpose.
“Enough! enough!” roared John, after a moment of hopeless pain and wriggling.
His warning came belated. His trousers were of good stuff enow, but trousers have their limitations. They parted, slightly above the uneven line of gripping hands, and came away in ragged banners.
The five citizens were horrified. So was John. Two of the gentlemen, with the booty taken from their friend, fell heavily to the floor.