So, with a little complimenting and resistance, it was settled: the widow and the suitor seated themselves on her side of the counter on two chairs, and looked out through the shop window at the proceedings of the builder.
Now it was seen how he emerged from the lower window of the spire, and how cautiously a short ladder was set up against it, by which, when made secure, he mounted, and placed himself astride the gable. Then a larger ladder was advanced against the incline of the steeple, and set so as to reach a considerable way up. This the mason ascended, and by some means he secured the ladder.
“It’s as easy as telling lies,” said the sailor. “I believe there are iron crooks let into the steeple.”
“But it looks dreadfully insecure,” said the widow. “Do see! he is like a fly against a rod.”
“More like a bumble-bee,” said Jack.
“What if he was to lose his head?”
“Not such a risk to him as to me,” sighed the mariner.
“What do you mean, Mr. Westcott?”
“Only I never can see any man swarmin’ up a mast or so but I feel an itch in my palms to be grapplin’ of somethin’. You’ll excuse me if I put my arm round and lay hold of the back of your chair.”