The day was fine—grey with occasional drifts of fog, but nothing to signify, and there was happily no wind. Nearly every parishioner was out to observe proceedings. Nearly—not all; there were exceptions. Mrs. French did not quit her shop. It neither comported with her ripe dignity to be seen among the rabble staring up at the sky, nor with her affairs, for a crowd on the green promised customers for ginger-beer and lollipops.
To her came Jack Westcott.
“Good-morning, mem. I thought, with your good favour, I’d fill my pouch with Virginia shag. And I’d like—if you have no objection—to see how that chap goes about it from within, on your premises.”
The widow bowed.
“Do you think, Mr. Westcott, there is real danger? I should never forgive myself——”
“Lord bless you. That mason chap wouldn’t do nothing that would hurt the tip of his nose. You’ll see. He’ll just run out some planks and nail a strip o’ wood across, and lash his ladders as well as lean them agin the strip. Bless your angel face and shining eyes, he’ll make all secure for himself.”
“But, Mr. Westcott, it really looks a most perilous undertaking.”
“Not more so than this,” said the sailor, suddenly swinging himself over the counter. “Excuse me, lovely creature! But I can’t well see what goes on on the side of the shop door; there’s all them darned advertisements block it up. But here—if I may be so bold as to watch.”
“You can take a chair, Mr. Westcott.”
“Never! unless you take one as well.”