He slung a latch key, fastened to a string, out of the window. It slid
down the side of the tower, into Bog's hand. He unlocked the door, and
the next moment the key was jerked aloft. The boy entered the base of
the tower. He was so familiar with every crook and passage, that the
small light of a gas jet, inside, was not necessary to show him the way.
Up he ran, sometimes clearing two steps at a jump, slipping his hand
lightly along the rough wooden banister. A few spiral turns brought him
to the bell, which hung in an open framework of timber. He gave the huge
bronze a familiar tap as he passed, and wound on and upward until he
came to a trap door, which Uncle Ith held invitingly open. Then he
sprang into the little room at the top of the tower, and Uncle Ith shook
him by the hand.
"You look well, I see, Bog. And how is your aunt?" Uncle Ith was mindful
of the usages of society, and always asked after her.
"Oh, she's smart," said Bog, totally oblivious of her rheumatism, "and
sent her love to ye." Bog was a peacemaker.
"Sent her rheumatism, I guess yer mean.
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