Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched
the rim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold
was firm enough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such
work, even when death would be the penalty of failure. Too long
he had lived on insufficient food and sat over the debilitating
desk. He swung this way and that, trying to throw one of his
knees as high as the top of the brickwork, but there was no
chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to the slates, he sat there
in perturbation.
He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand
by the parapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled
with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person
either in the yards behind or at the back windows of other
houses. The night was so obscure that he could not hope to be
seen; voice alone must be depended upon, and there was no
certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though he stood in
his shirt-sleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him;
his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futile
struggle to climb.
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