“I said: ‘I can’t, mister. It would get lost. It belongs to my grandfather. It’s silk. The silk came from China where little yellow ladies wound it off silk cocoons by hand. And the bows are all steel, forged by hand. And besides, it might hit somebody and mighty nigh kill ’em.’
“He said: ‘Don’t matter. Out she goes!’
“Then I says: ‘If she goes out, I go with her.’
“He says: ‘That’s jake with me.’
“So up I climbs and out I jumps. And fall! You never saw the houses get big as fast as those did!
“I got to thinking I might fall on somebody and was feelin’ mighty sorry about that, when I thought of my umbrella. All silk from China it was, where little yeller women wound it out from cocoons. And the bows all made from hand forged steel. Strong they were, strong as London Bridge.
“And when I thought of my umbrella I knew it was all right; parachute, don’t you know.”
Once more his voice trailed away like the last echo of a distant tolling bell.
Petite Jeanne stole a look at his face. It was still, and almost beautiful. “Like a child’s dream,” she thought.
“And then—” He came to himself with a start. “Then I opened up that umbrella. Silk, you understand, all pure silk, and bows of forged steel. Strong as London Bridge. I opened her up, and she caught me and held me and let me down in a cabbage patch. Now what do you think of that?” His face was all wreathed with smiles.