He thought a moment.
“Well,” he exclaimed philosophically, “I’ll do what I came here for!”
Swinging his hammer, he knocked the vane into proper shape. Zebulon heard the rapping of the hammer, as orderly and musical as the sound of any hammer strokes down on the ground. He was surprised when he was summoned to see the hammerer up in the air and the broken ladder on the ground.
“Oh, Zebulon!” shrieked a voice. “Git a ladder! Why don’t ye?”
“That’s Nancy!” he said to himself.
Yes, after this voice came a woman, and Zebulon’s wife, rushing up to his side, put her hands up to her eyes to fence off the sunlight, and then looked at the occupant of that gilt ball on the church–steeple.
“Git a ladder?” the old sexton murmured. “Where?”
Yes, where? There was no other about the premises, and to visit a neighbor for that purpose would use up a half–hour, and in the meantime what if—a person does not like to think what might happen.
“Oh dear, Zebulon! What did you let him go up for?” asked his wife.
“If—if—you had asked that question afore he went up, there would have been some sense to it. He wanted to go,” replied the old sexton impatiently. “The thing to do now, is to git him down.”