The glare of the sun almost blinded me at first.  Then I saw that I was on a flat part of the roof,—­the highest point in the house.  The roof sloped on either side toward an enormous chimney.  The shingles were old and rotten.

Looking off, I could see a great distance in almost every direction.  Across the bay, so far that I could hardly see the steam-boat herself, was a trail of black smoke from the “May Queen.”  The water on the other side of the house was hidden by the trees.

I turned again to make sure that I had replaced the scuttle.  As I did so I heard Mr. Snider’s footsteps in the attic beneath.  My first thought was to sit on the scuttle hoping to keep it closed.  But I knew that I was not heavy enough to hold it down.  Would he think of the roof?  If he did, and if he came up the ladder, of course he would find the scuttle unlocked, and he would know that I was on the roof.  The thing to do was to wait there until he raised the scuttle and then bat him over the head.  But unfortunately, I had nothing to bat him with.

Sure enough, here he came up the ladder!  I retreated down the slope of the roof,—­it was a ticklish job, but again my rubber-soled shoes stood me in good stead—­and crawled around to the other side of the broad chimney, and hid behind it.

I had not been there more than a second before he raised the scuttle.  I could hear him puffing.  Once more my heart began to thump and my throat to contract.  He stepped out upon the roof and I suppose he decided immediately that I was behind one of the chimneys.  At any rate he started down the roof in my direction.  The instant that he did so he slipped and came down on the roof with a crash.  Several shingles must have come out, and he clawed and scraped at a great rate.  I thought—­and hoped—­that he was going to slide right off the roof, but he managed to save himself.  His slide was checked somehow, and he commenced to crawl back toward the scuttle.  As he did so he uttered a string of curses that would have horrified his friends in Lanesport very much.

I heard him descend the ladder.  It struck me that he was going down to the side of the house, to look up to the roof and see if I were really behind the chimney.  I hurried out from my hiding-place and crawled on my hands and knees up the slope of the roof.  But when I reached the scuttle I found it closed and locked.  I could not raise it.  He had caught me now,—­I might stay on that roof forever, for all that I could do.

Unless—­and I already had my jack-knife out—­unless I could cut through the scuttle and get at the hasp.  The wood was old, frail, and half rotten,—­in three minutes I had the point of the blade through.  In five, I had cut a hole large enough to admit two fingers.  I knew that I was safe from being seen,—­anyone on that part of the roof would not be visible from the ground near the house.  After cutting for a little while longer I put enough of my hand through the hole to unfasten the hasp.  Then I raised the scuttle, with the pleasant sensation that this was quite in line with our escape from the jail at Bailey’s Harbor.  Even better than that,—­I was alone here, and cutting my way out,—­or rather down, with a jack-knife.  It gave me a thrill like some of the adventures in “The Rifle Rangers,” and various other story-books.