The victim grinned uncomfortably.

“Mr. Upton,” urged Westby, “you wouldn’t have me soil these hands?” He displayed his laudably clean, pink fingers.  “Of course, if I go up there I shall get my hands all dirty—­and equally of course if I had been up there, they would be all dirty now.  Surely you believe in the value of circumstantial evidence; therefore, before we fix the responsibility, let us search for the dirty pair of hands.”

“Time is up,” said Irving, closing his watch.

“But what is time when justice trembles in the balance?” argued Westby.  “When the innocent is in danger of being punished for the guilty, when—­”

“Westby, please climb that ladder at once.”

“So young and so inexorable!” murmured Westby, setting his foot upon the ladder.

Irving’s face was red; the tittering of the audience was making him angry.  He held his eyes on Westby, who made a slow, grunting progress up three rungs and then stopped.

“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” Westby’s voice was ingratiating.  “Mayn’t Allison sing for us, sir?”

Allison grinned again foolishly and sent a sprawling foot out towards his persecutor; the others laughed.

“Keep on climbing,” said Irving.

Westby resumed his toilsome way, and as he moved he kept murmuring remarks to Allison, to the others, to Irving himself, half audible, rapid, in an aggrieved tone.

“Don’t see why you want to be conspicuous this way, Allison.—­Won’t sing—­amuse anybody—­ornamental, I suppose—­good timekeeper though—­almost hear you tick.  Mr. Upton—­setting watch by you now—­awfully severe kind of man—­”

So mumbling, with the responsive titter still continuing below and Irving standing there stern and red, Westby disappeared into the loft.  There was a moment’s silence, then a sudden clicking of a ratchet wheel, and Allison began to rise rapidly towards the ceiling.

“A-ay!” cried Allison in amazement.

The boys burst out in delighted laughter.

“Westby!  Westby!  Stop that!” Irving’s voice was shrill with anger.

Allison became stationary once more, and Westby displayed an innocent, surprised face at the loft opening.

“If there is any more nonsense in letting Allison down, I shall really have to report you.”  Irving’s voice rose tremulously to a high key; he was trying hard to control it.

Westby gazed down with surprise.  “Why, I guess I must have turned the crank the wrong way, don’t you suppose I did, Mr. Upton?—­Don’t worry, Allison, old man; I’ll rescue you, never fear.  I’ll try to lower you gently, so that you won’t get hurt; you’ll call out if you find you’re coming down too fast, won’t you?”

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.