I
told him what I had once seen a mechanic do on a steep, slated roof nearly
a hundred feet from the pavement. He had faced round from his work, which
was close to the ridge-tiles, probably to kick off the shabby shoes he had
on, when some hold failed him and he began to slide toward the eaves. We
people in the street below fairly moaned our horror, but he didn't utter a
sound. He held back with all his skill, one leg thrust out in front, the
other drawn up with the knee to his breast, and his hands flattened beside
him on the slates, but he came steadily on down till his forward foot
passed over the eaves and his heel caught on the tin gutter. Then he
stopped. We held our breath below. He slowly and cautiously threw off one
shoe, then the other, and then turned, climbed back up the roof and
resumed his work. And we two or three witnesses down in the street didn't
think any less of him because he did so without any show of our glad
emotion.
"O, if I had that fellow's nerve," said Gregory, "that would be another
thing!"
My wife and I smiled at each other. "How would it be 'another thing?'" we
asked. "Did _you_ not quietly get up and begin life over again as if
nothing had occurred?"
"There wasn't anything else to do," he replied, with a smile.
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