“Oh if the roof was to fall in and kill me!” thought the miller: “where shall I be to-morrow?” At last the noises ceased, and sleep shut the miller’s eyes. When he awoke the storm was over. He looked out to see if any harm had come to his mill. There it stood, the long arms stuck out just as usual. He was soon dressed. On his way to the mill he called Sam Green. When they got near they found that the wind had done harm to some of the sails of the mill, which were stretched on the long arms.
“Sam, before the mill can go we must mend these sails,” said the miller. “Go to the house and get the tools; you and I can do it.”
“Yes, master,” said Sam. “It would be a rum mill-sail I couldn’t tackle.”
Sam brought the tools, and he and Mark Page went into the mill. They found that the storm had done some harm to the inside of the mill, and that two or three things were out of place. They soon put them right though, as they thought, and then they set to work to mend the sails. They had much grist to grind, and they were in a hurry; so the miller climbed along one of the arms with the tools he wanted, and Sam went along another. There was a nice breeze—not much—but it seemed as if it would get stronger and stronger. So they worked on as fast as they could, that they might soon get the sails mended and the mill going.
There they were, the miller and his man, out at the end of those long arms high up in the air. Few people would have wished to have changed places with them.
“Make haste, Sam,” cried the miller from his perch. “It’s a tough job I have got here. I shall want your help.”
“All right, master, I shall soon be done,” said Sam, and he worked on.
“Hallo, Sam, what are you about, man?” cried the miller on a sudden.
“Nothing, master,” said Sam, hammering away.
“Nothing! nothing?” cried out the miller, at the top of his voice. “Why the mill is moving. Stop it, man; stop it.”