“Good-morning, mem. I thought, with your good favour, I’d fill my pouch with Virginia shag. And I’d like—if you have no objection—to see how that chap goes about it from within, on your premises.” The widow bowed. “Do you think, Mr. Westcott, there is real danger? I should never forgive myself——” “Lord bless you. That mason chap wouldn’t do nothing that would hurt the tip of his nose. You’ll see. He’ll just run out some planks and nail a strip o’ wood across, and lash his ladders as well as lean them agin the strip. Bless your angel face and shining eyes, he’ll make all secure for himself.” “But, Mr. Westcott, it really looks a most perilous undertaking.” “Not more so than this,” said the sailor, suddenly swinging himself over the counter. “Excuse me, lovely creature! But I can’t well see what goes on on the side of the shop door; there’s all them darned advertisements block it up. But here—if I may be so bold as to watch.” “You can take a chair, Mr. Westcott.” “Never! unless you take one as well.” So, with a little complimenting and resistance, it was settled: the widow and the suitor seated themselves on her side of the counter on two chairs, and looked out through the shop window at the proceedings of the builder. Now it was seen how he emerged from the lower window of the spire, and how cautiously a short ladder was set up against it, by which, when made secure, he mounted, and placed himself astride the gable. Then a larger ladder was advanced against the incline of the steeple, and set so as to reach a considerable way up. This the mason ascended, and by some means he secured the ladder. “It’s as easy as telling lies,” said the sailor. “I believe there are iron crooks let into the steeple.” “But it looks dreadfully insecure,” said the widow. “Do see! he is like a fly against a rod.” “More like a bumble-bee,” said Jack. “What if he was to lose his head?” “Not such a risk to him as to me,” sighed the mariner. “What _do_ you mean, Mr. Westcott?” “Only I never can see any man swarmin’ up a mast or so but I feel an itch in my palms to be grapplin’ of somethin’. You’ll excuse me if I put my arm round and lay hold of the back of your chair.” “If it’s any comfort to you, Mr. Westcott.” “I don’t think that chair-back very firm,” observed Jack. “Oh! do, do look!” exclaimed the widow. “He is on one ladder, and thrusting up another hands over head! and, oh! if his feet were to give way! if he were to stagger! if the ladder were to slip! oh, I feel—I feel quite giddy and faint.” “Lean on me,” said Jack; “and—drat that chair-back! it is cracked. That’s more substantial and agreeable to both parties.” He slipped his arm round her waist. “England expects every man to do his dooty.” “I really cannot bear to see poor dear Mr. Newbold thus risk his precious life.”