and along the slate-flagged
corridor--very slowly here, for a draught fluttered the candle flame,
and Mr. Jope had to shield it with a shaking palm. Once with a
hoarse "What's that?" Mr. Adams halted and cast himself into a
posture of defence--against his own shadow, black and amorphous,
wavering on the wall.

They came to the iron-studded door.

"Open, you," commanded Mr. Jope under his breath. "And not too fast,
mind--there was a breeze o' wind blowin' this arternoon. Steady does
it--look out for the step, an' then straight forw--"

A howl drowned the last word, as Mr. Adams struck his shin against
some obstacle and pitched headlong into darkness--a howl of pain
blent with a dull jarring rumble. Silence followed, and out of the
silence broke a faint groan.

"Bill! Bill Adams! Oh, Bill, for the Lord's sake--!"
Still mechanically shielding his candle, Mr. Jope staggered back a
pace, and leaned against the stone door-jamb for support.

"Here!" sounded the voice of Bill, very faint in the darkness.
"Here! fetch along the light, quick!"

"Wot's it?"

"Casks."

"Casks?"

"Kegs, then. I ought to know," responded Bill plaintively, "seeing
as I pretty near broke my leg on one!"

Mr. Jope peered forward, holding the light high. In the middle of
the cellar stood the quarter-puncheon and around it a whole regiment
of small barrels. Half doubting his eyesight, he stooped to examine
them. Around each keg was bound a sling of rope.

"Rope?" muttered Mr. Jope, stooping. "Foreign rope--left-handed
rope--" And with that of a sudden he sat down on the nearest keg and
began to laugh. "The old varmint! the darned old sinful methodeerin'
varmint!"

"Oh, stow it, Ben! 'Tisn' manly." But still the unnatural laughter
continued. "What in thunder--"

Bill Adams came groping between the kegs.

"Step an' bar the outer door, ye nincom! _Can't you see?_ There's
been a run o' goods; an' while that Coyne sat stuffin' us up with his
ghosts, his boys were down below here loadin' us up with neat furrin
sperrits--_loadin' us up_, mark you. My blessed word, the fun we'll
have wi' that Coyne to-morrow!"

Mr. Adams in a mental fog groped his way to the door opening on the
river steps, bolted it, groped his way back and stood scratching his
head. A grin, grotesque in the wavering light, contorted the long
lower half of the face for a moment and was gone. He seldom smiled.

"On the whole," said Mr. Adams, indicating t