He withdrew his head, and presently the ratchet wheel clicked and slowly, very slowly, Allison began to descend. When his feet were a couple of inches from the floor, the descent stopped. “All right now?” called Westby from above. “No!” bawled Allison. “Ve-ry gently then, ve-ry gently,” replied Westby; and Allison, reaching for the floor with his toes, had at last the satisfaction of feeling it. He wriggled out of the noose and smoothed out his rumpled coat. “Saved!” exclaimed Westby, peering down from the opening, and then he added sorrowfully, “Saved, and no word of gratitude to his rescuer!” “Now, boys, don’t stand round here any longer; we’ve had enough nonsense; go to your rooms,” said Irving. “Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” clamored Westby, and the boys lingered. Irving looked up in exasperation. “What is it now?” “May I come down, please, sir?” “Yes.” “Thank you, sir.” Carefully Westby descended the ladder, mumbling all the time sentences of which the lingerers caught fragmentary scraps: “Horrible experience that of Allison’s—dreadful situation to have been in—so fortunate that I was at hand—the man who dares—reckless courage, ready resource—home again!” He dropped to the floor, and raising his hand to his forehead, saluted Irving. “Come, move on, all you fellows,” said Irving; the others were still hanging about and laughing; “move on, move on! Carroll, you and Westby take that ladder down and put it back where you got it.” He stayed to see that the order was carried out; then he returned to his room. He felt that though he had conquered in this instance, he had adopted the wrong tone, and that he must offer something else than peevishness and irritation to ward off Westby’s humor; already it gave indications of becoming too audacious. Yet on the whole Irving was pleased because he had at least asserted himself—and had rather enjoyed doing it. And an hour later it seemed to him that he had lost all that he had gained. Roast beef was the unvarying dish at Sunday dinner; a large and fragrant sirloin was set before the head of each table to be carved. Irving took up the carving knife and fork with some misgivings. Hitherto he had had nothing more difficult to deal with than steaks or chops or croquettes or stews; and carving was an art that he had never learned; confronted by the necessity, he was amazed to find that he had so little idea of how to proceed. The first three slices came off readily enough, though they were somewhat ragged, and Irving was aware that Westby was surveying his operations with a critical interest. The knife seemed to grow more dull, the meat more wobbly, more tough, the bone got more and more in the way; the maid who was passing the vegetables was waiting, all the boys except the three who had been helped first were waiting, coldly critical, anxiously apprehensive; silence at this table had begun to reign.