"I don't know about that," said Monkey Roe, in a low tone, to one of the boys who had crowded around to learn what the trustees would do. "The back of that kite is pretty thoroughly greased. It'll shed water like a duck, and nothing less than a heavy hail-storm can bring it down."
"How do you know that, young man?" said Mr. Simmons, who overheard him.
"Why," said Monkey, seeing that he had betrayed himself, "you see—the fact is—I—I—saw a little bird try to light on the kite, but he slipped off so quick I knew it must be greased."
"Humph!" said Mr. Simmons. "That's a likely story."
"Brother Simmons," said Deacon Graham, "we can't wait for a storm,—there is no prospect of any. If we don't dispose of this thing pretty soon, I'm afraid it'll make us ridiculous."
Nobody was able to suggest any means of relief. Perhaps a sailor could have climbed the lightning-rod; but there was no sailor in town, and half way up the spire the rod was broken and a section was missing. There seemed to be no way short of building a scaffolding to the top of the steeple, which would have cost considerable money.
The pastor's son took Monkey Roe aside. "Your prophesy has been nobly fulfilled," said he, "and you've given us a tremendous piece of fun. Get us up another as good as this."
The result of the deliberations of the trustees was, that they resolved to offer a reward of twenty dollars to any one who would get the kite off from the steeple; and this offer was formally proclaimed to the crowd by Deacon Graham.
Hardly had the proclamation been made, when Phaeton Rogers, who had conceived a plan for getting down the kite, and had been preparing the necessary implements, appeared on the scene with his equipment.
This consisted of a powerful hickory bow, about as tall as himself, two heavy arrows, and a large ball of the best kite-string.