“Not worth it!” exclaimed the mason, and was about to fall on his knees, when the sailor pointed to his boot, and brandished his foot menacingly. “I can’t allow that—not in my presence.” “We will draw lots who is to go up and attempt it,” said the mason. “And who is to have fair field and no interference for courtin’,” said the mariner. “Done! It shall be so!” said Newbold. “I agrees,” said Westcott. “Now there is one thing I bargain for,” observed the builder. “If he who first attempts it fails and falls, and gets squelched, don’t let the other take advantage, and shirk doing of it in his turn. Let him also venture like a man.” “Like a man!” echoed the tar. “‘England expects every man to do his dooty.’” “Come, shall we draw matches?” “Matches! It’s a match for one alone.” “Then toss up.” “Toss up you are. And the winner has fair field and no just cause or impediment why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony.” “Here is a penny,” said Newbold. “A penny! You ought to blush the colour of the copper to suggest it. I will toss only gold for such a bloomin’ and lovely lady. Here is a sovereign. Heads or Royal Arms—which?” “Heads for me!” said Newbold. “And arms—them extended arms for me,” said Jack Westcott, with a leer at the widow. The sailor tossed the sovereign. “Heads!” he exclaimed. “Best of three,” said the mason condescendingly. “Tails!” said Jack, after the second toss. Now all paused and looked at each other. The widow’s face expressed anxiety. Up went the gold piece once more, whisking high, and Westcott caught it, but paused a moment before opening his palms. “Come, man! Let us see our fate,” said Newbold. The sailor raised his right hand, and the sovereign in his left disclosed the reverse of the coin uppermost. “I’ve won!” said the builder. “It is I who am to have the first shot at the weathercock.” “And I bide below with the lady,” said the mariner. “Let me consider,” mused Newbold. “I have a little job on hand for Squire Theobald; it will take me about a week, and my ladders be all engaged. But I’ll tell you what. Monday week will suit me, and that will be time enough before the feast.” “Oh, Mr. Newbold, do not be _too_ rash,” pleaded the widow. “Ma’am, I would dare anything for you,” he answered gravely. The tidings that John Newbold was going to ascend the spire and put the vane to rights produced lively satisfaction in the breasts of the villagers, and awoke vast curiosity to know how he would set to work to accomplish it. The day was fine—grey with occasional drifts of fog, but nothing to signify, and there was happily no wind. Nearly every parishioner was out to observe proceedings. Nearly—not all; there were exceptions. Mrs. French did not quit her shop. It neither comported with her ripe dignity to be seen among the rabble staring up at the sky, nor with her affairs, for a crowd on the green promised customers for ginger-beer and lollipops. To her came Jack Westcott.