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Mr. Adams surrendered, and tottered to the door. They passed out, and through the vaulted kitchen, 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 the kegs, “I fancy these better’n the naked objects upstairs. Suppose we spend the rest o’ the night here? It’s easier,” he added, “than runnin’ to and fro for the drink. But what about liquor not accumylatin’?”