Casting a few feet of the coil around the spindle and over the vane, so that the bowline should hang properly, Ben called to Mr. Miles to make the end well fast. Then lifting himself by his arms, he slipped his legs through the loop and sat suspended between earth and sky. Lowering his piece of spun yarn to Mr. Miles, he received a bit of stout ratlin stuff, with which he rigged a foot-rope (as you see them under the yards of a ship) on the vane, which was about nine feet long. Mr. Miles then sent him up a basket with the gilding material, which Ben made fast to the vane. Then, with great difficulty, getting on to the foot-rope, upon which he could only sit—for he dared not stand—he "squirmed" himself out to its extreme limit, and began his work.
Ah me! what a terrible task it was! The sun beat down on his head with terrible force as it rose higher in the heavens. He could only use one hand to work with, the other being employed in holding on. An occasional breath of air would set the arrow in motion, and send his heart into his mouth at the same time. Every bone in him ached, his head was confused and dizzy—he dared not look directly down for his life. But he kept doggedly at his work all day long, with the one thought uppermost in his mind, "It's for mother's sake," and as the watchman in the neighboring church tower called out, "Six o'clock, 'n' all's well" (for this is one of the old usages of the city), Ben put the last touch of gilding on the point of the arrow.
Changing back to the bowline, Ben then cast off the ends of the foot-rope, while a cheer came faintly up to his ears from the great crowd which had gathered in the square beneath, as they knew the little Yankee—as they called him—had completed his work. Hugging the spindle tightly, Ben drew himself out of the bowline, threw it off from the vane, and slid rapidly down the swaying rod. Down the knotted rope he sped, past Mr. Miles, who began to congratulate him, down by beam and ladder and winding stair, until he reached the solid earth. And then, as a great shout went up from the lookers-on, Ben for the first and only time in his whole life fainted away. But a little cold water, and the touch of the roll of crisp greenbacks which were counted out by the enthusiastic Mr. Miles, quickly restored Ben to himself, and he returned to the Calypso a hero.
The city papers made honorable mention of the "gallant young New-Englander," and one lady, if I remember rightly, immortalized the daring feat in a poem called "The Arrow and the Ball."
The passage back to Boston was a quick one, and Ben was once more clasped in his mother's arms, narrating the story of his adventures.
"But I wouldn't undertake such a climb again," said Ben, as he carefully folded away the cancelled mortgage, with its indorsement of paid-up principal and interest, "for all the money in Savannah."
"I hope not, Benny dear," returned Mrs. Buttles, with a tearful shake of her head; "but I should be most afraid to resk it—you're sech a dretful ventur'some creetur."