“Well,” said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was now returned, “what is the news?” “Ma’am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has been telling me the whole story. The other morning, ma’am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row. Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma’am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney. The other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry; but in his fright, and all, he did not know what to do, ma’am; for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make attend to his screech; the boy within almost stifling too. So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma’am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk.” “Ay,” interrupted Mrs. Theresa, “friend Ephraim is one of your early risers.” “Well,” said Marianne, impatiently. “So, ma’am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep; and at once he understands the matter—” “I’m sure he must have taken some time to understand it,” interposed Mrs. Tattle, “for he’s the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the sweep did make him hear.” “So he says, ma’am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma’am.” “Bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; “but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all? “Why, ma’am,” said Christopher, with a look of great delight, “that was all as one, as the very ’dentical words I put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, ma’am, that was what I couldn’t get out of him, neither, rightly, for he is a churl—the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean; for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he wouldn’t take it laughing like at all; but would only make answer to us like a bear, ‘He saved my life, that’s all I know’; and this over again, ma’am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. But I finds him stupid and ill-mannered like, for I offered him a shilling, ma’am, myself, to tell about the wig; but he put it back in a way that did not become such as he, to no lady’s butler, ma’am; whereupon I turns to the slim fellow (and he’s smarterer, and more mannerly, ma’am, with a tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve me my question either; for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o’ the time: and when he came down Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma’am.” “Poor Mr. Eden!” exclaimed Marianne. “Oh, miss,” continued the servant, “and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed.”