He climbed the rail, and, clutching the stems of the ivy with both hands, slid off into space. Leaning over, I watched him swaying downwards in short, spasmodic jerks.
Suddenly from within the room came the crash of a splintering panel.
"Look out!" I yelled hurriedly. "I'm coming!" And, scrambling over the rail, I, too, committed myself to that inadequate creeper.
I know that in books of adventure people swarm up and down an ivy-clad house without the faintest inconvenience, but as one who has tried it, I can only say that it's about the most poisonously impossible feat ever attempted.
Bruce was luckier than I. He was within four feet of the ground when the stuff gave way; I must have fallen at least twelve. And I landed in a rose bush.
Bruce, who had scrambled to his feet, rushed up and pulled me out of the wreckage.
"Hurt?" he inquired eagerly.
"Oh, no," I replied with some bitterness, "not in the least! I love to come down sitting on a rose bush. It's a kind of hobby of mine."
We had no time to squabble, however. Before Bruce could answer, we heard the window above flung violently open, and the furious panting of Mrs. Jones, as she climbed out on to the balcony.
That was enough. With incredible celerity we dashed for the garden gate, and nearly killed ourselves trying to get out at the same moment. Then, turning to the right, we raced down the road towards Haverstock Hill.