far before him into the
pond.

Up till now the flames had hardly reached the tower, and it seemed at
least a possible thing that the maniac might be saved. But none of the
Breckonsiders were keen about it. Only Mr. Ablethorpe and my father
were willing to make any attempt to save him. Indeed, I was absolutely
with the majority on this occasion, and could not, for my part, imagine
a better solution than that which seemed to be imminent.

Nevertheless, the two tried to get into the tower from behind, but
found all a seething mass of flames, which had swept across the whole
main body of the building as if to swallow up Hobby's Folly for a last
_bonne bouche_. There was no arguing with such a spate of fire. There
remained, however, a little low door, reported to be of iron, but
which, being near to the water and exposed to the fury of damp westerly
winds and the moist fogs off the pond, had probably rusted half away.

[Illustration: "The two tried to get into the Tower from behind, but
found all a seething mass of flames."]

"Come, let us do our duty," said Mr. Ablethorpe; "here is a human life!
Let us save it!"

But nobody but Mr. Yarrow, senior, followed him. I was with the
majority on this point, as I have said before, and so stayed where I
was. Besides, Mad Jeremy was so curious to see and hear. He laughed
and sang, his shrill voice carrying well through the crackle of the
rafters and the snap and spit of the smaller shredded fragments of
flame. As soon as he caught sight of Mr. Ablethorpe and my father he
began to hurl down the copings of the battlements upon their heads. So
that in the end they had to desist from the attempt, though they had
nobly done their best.

And all the while he sang. It was the trampling measure of "There's
nae luck" that the madman had chosen for his swan song. Never had been
seen or heard such a thing. As he finished each verse he would rise
and dance, balancing himself on the utmost point of the cupola, his
melodeon swaying in his hand and his voice declaring ironically that--

"There's nae luck aboot the hoose,
There's nae luck ava,
There's little pleasure i' the hoose,
When oor guidman's awa'!"

Then he would laugh, and call out to the people beneath that the luck
had come back.

"The guidman o' the Grange is safe!" he would cry. "He is at his loom,
but never more will he weave, I ken. Jeremy has seen to that. And
what for that, quo' ye? Juist