One would indeed have been enough, and Zeb Fuller made two. That would have been altogether too much, if there had not somehow dimly dawned on Zebedee’s mind the idea that it was his duty to keep George Brayton’s attention as much as possible.
Bar found the two sitting together at the top of the stairs waiting for him, but he stepped lightly past them and out upon the deck.
It was the work of an instant, as he seemed to peer out upon the roof through that western window. The end of the rope was detached from the lower “arm” of the van and there was no danger of any more noise just then.
“Vernon,” said Brayton, “do you think you could climb up there such a night as this without danger?”
“Certainly,” said Bar.
“Will you?”
Bar’s reply, to the intense admiration of Zeb Fuller, who would scarcely have undertaken it himself, except as out-and-out “mischief,” was to climb rapidly and lightly up, till he reached the rafters beside the bell.
“Nobody here, Mr. Brayton,” he shouted. “Nobody’d want to sit here and toll, anyhow!”
“Come down, then. I thought as much,” replied Brayton.
Bar was down with the rapidity of a young monkey, for he now knew every inch of the way.