l doors in his
absence. They had often agreed that it would be worth all their labor to
enlighten Donkin by letting the pit gape under his nose as he entered
the bank. Fergus glanced over his shoulder, saw the other hurrying, and
hurried himself in order to take up a good position for seeing the
cashier's face. He was in the middle of the treacherous floor before he
perceived that it was not Macbean in the half-light behind the counter,
but a good-looking man whom he had never seen before.

"Didn't know I was invited, eh?" said the stranger, putting up a single
eye-glass. "Don't believe it, perhaps? You'd better ask Mr. Macbean!"

And before it had occurred to him to stir from where he stood agape, the
floor fell from under the feet of Fergus, his body lurched forward, and
came down flat and heavy on the hard earth eight feet below. Not
entirely stunned, though shaken and hurt from head to heel, he was still
collecting his senses when the pit blackened as the trap-door shut in
implicit obedience to its weights and springs. And in the clinging
velvet darkness the young man heard a groan.

"Is that yoursel', Fergy?"

"And are you there, Mr. Macbean?"

"Mon, didn't it shut just fine!"

Curiously blended with the physical pain in the manager's voice was a
sodden philosophic humor which maddened the younger man. Fergus swore
where he lay writhing on his stomach. Macbean chuckled and groaned
again.

"It's Stingaree," he said, drawing a breath through his teeth.

"Of course it is."

"I never breathed it to a soul."

"No more did I."

Fergus spoke with ready confidence, and yet the words left something on
his mind. It was something vague but haunting, something that made him
feel instinctively unworthy of the kindly, uncomplaining tone which had
annoyed him but a moment before.

"No bones broken, Fergy?"

"None that I know of."

"I doubt I've not been so lucky. I'm thinkin' it's a rib, by the way it
hurts to breathe."

Fergus was already fumbling in his pocket. The match-box opened with a
click. The match scraped several times in vain. Then at last the scene
sprang out as on the screen of a magic-lantern. And to Fergus it was a
very white old man, hunched up against the muddy wall, with blood upon
his naked scalp and beard, and both hands pressed to his side; to the
old man, a muddy face stricken with horrified concern, and a match
burning down between muddy fingers; but to both, such a new view and
version