lively Fowler had marched whistling into the bank, had
ceased whistling to swear down the barrel of a cocked revolver, and met
a quicker fate than his comrades by impressing the bushranger as the
most dangerous man of the quartette. Unfortunately for him, his fate
was still further differentiated from theirs. Fowler's feet glanced off
Carrick's back, and he plunged into the well head-first, rolling over
like a stone as the wooden jaws above closed greedily upon the light of
day.

Fergus at once struck matches, and in their light the cashier took the
insensible head upon his knees and glared at his enemy as if from
sanctuary of the Red Cross. But Fergus returned to Macbean's side.

"I never said a word to a living soul," he muttered. "It has come out
some other way."

"Of course it has," said the old manager, with the same tell-tale
inhalation through the teeth. Fergus felt worse than ever. He groped for
the bald head and found it cold and dank. In an instant he was clamoring
under the trap-door, leaping up and striking it with his fist.

"What do you want?"

"Whiskey. Some of us are hurt."

"God help you if it's any hanky-panky!"

"It's none. Something to drink, and something to drink it in, or there's
blood upon your head!"

Clanking steps departed and returned.

"Stand by to catch, below there!"

And Fergus stood by, expecting to see a long barrel with the bottle and
glass that broke their fall on him; but Stingaree had crept away
unheard, and he pressed the lever just enough to let the glass and
bottle tumble through.

Time passed: it might have been an hour. The huddled heap that was
Macbean breathed forth relief. The head on Donkin's knees moved from
side to side with groans. Donkin himself thanked Fergus for his ration;
he who served it out alone went thirsty. "Wait till I earn some," he
said bitterly to himself. "I could finish the lot if I started now." But
the others never dreamt that he was waiting, and he lied about it to
Macbean.

Now that they sat in silence no sound escaped them overhead. They heard
Stingaree and his mate sit down to a feast which Macbean described with
groaning modesty as the best that he could do.

"There's no soup," he whispered, "but there's a barr'l of oysters
fetched up on purpose by the coach. I hope they havena missed the
Chablis. They may as well do the thing complete." In a little the
champagne popped. "Dry Monopole!" moaned the manager, near to tears. "It
came