But my position was far from enviable. I was sitting on the very edge of the roof between the church and the rectory, about thirty feet from the ground. The pitch of the roof was not so steep but what I could climb it, but that would do me no particular good. Above me was the roof of the house, and I remembered that I had seen a light in the rectory as I came across the lawn. There must be some sort of an arrangement to reach the roof through the rectory attic. I decided to try and find it. Carefully I edged myself along and began to climb over the smooth expanse of the rectory shingles. Though they were slippery, yet the pitch was the same as that of the church, and I had no difficulty. Halfway up the roof I found what I had expected—an opening into the attic. But when I had seated myself on the wooden hatch, I was no better off than before. It was locked, and I was unable to open it. Sitting there for a few moments, I tried to puzzle out what I should do next. I did not intend to spend the night on the roof if I could help it, and yet there did not seem to be any way down to the ground. Then I began to bang on the covered opening—banging with my feet, pounding and pounding. I would do this for a moment, then wait, only to bang again. Just as I was about ready to give up hope I heard footsteps in the attic, and a very surprised voice cried in a muffled tone: “What's that?” I yelled out that I was on the roof and climbed off the cover of the trap door. In a moment it was slowly lifted, and, looking through the opening, I saw the rather startled face of the minister. I drew myself to the edge and dropped at his surprised feet on the attic floor. As I straightened up, I saw his eyes sweep over me, and they grew very wide as he gasped: “Good heavens! it's Mr. Pelt.” I must have been a rather sorry-looking object. The branches of the trees through which I had pushed my way while in the swamp had torn my clothes. One leg of my trousers flapped to and fro as I moved. I was covered with dirt, while my shoes were a mass of mud. My face, which his eyes gazed upon in amazement, must have been a sight, for after one look he exclaimed: “What has happened to you, Mr. Pelt? And—and, why were you on my roof?” I started to explain, when, remembering his duties, he begged me to come down in his library. I followed him down the attic steps to the first floor, where we went into a room lined with books. He motioned to a chair, excused himself and left the room. In a moment he returned, bringing with him a bottle and a glass. As he poured out the wine, he said he thought I needed it, and then, dropping into a chair, watched me while I drank.