I saw the slates at the foot of the weathercock, that they were thinly edged and of light scantling.

I knew that they must be nailed upon a wooden framework not unlike a ladder.

And at the Genevan Hospital, as I have recorded, we wore stout plates on our shoes.
I am told that it was a bad few moments for the lookers-on when they saw me lower myself sideways from my crocket and begin to hammer on the slates with my toes: for at first they did not comprehend, and then they reasoned that the slates were new, and if I failed to kick through them, to pull myself back to the crocket again would be a desperate job.
But they did not know our shoe-leather.

Mr.Scougall, whatever his faults, usually contrived to get value for his money, and at the tenth kick or so my toes went clean through the slate and rested on the laths within.

Next came the most delicate moment of all, for with a less certain grip on the crocket I had to kick a second hole lower down, and transfer my hand-hold from the stone to the wooden lath laid bare by my first kicks.
This, too, with a long poise and then a flying clutch, I accomplished; and with the rest of my descent I will not weary the reader.