Part 7 (2/2)
”No, he couldn't jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won't show us where he is, we'll take the liberty of sarchin' your premises. But stay, your daughter's got the name o' bein' a religious gal. If there's any truth in that she'd be above tellin' a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good gal, is Tom Brixton here?”
”No, he is not here,” replied the girl.
”Where is he, then?”
”I do not know.”
”That's false, you _do_ know. But come, lads, we'll sarch, and here's a cellar to begin with.”
He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two others. Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was discovered.
”Ho! ho!” he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. ”Here's something, anyhow.”
After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as far as his arm could reach.
”Mind he don't bite!” suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a laugh from the by-standers.
”Hand me that stick, Paddy,” said Gashford, ”and keep your jokes to a more convenient season.”
”Ah! then 'tis always a convanient season wid me, sor,” replied Paddy, with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick.
”Does this hole go far in?” he asked, after a fruitless poking about with the stick.
”Ay, a long way. More'n a hundred yards,” returned Bevan.
”Well, I'll have a look at it.”
Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow.
We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree.
It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an entrance. When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither advance nor retreat! He struggled violently, and a m.u.f.fled sound of shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was said.
”Och! the poor cratur,” exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of overdone commiseration, ”what'll we do for 'im at all at all?”
”Let's try to pull him out,” suggested Crossby.
They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of him.
”Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle,” said Flinders, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, ”an' what a most awful crack he'll make whin he does come out! Let's give another heave, boys.”
They gave another heave, but only caused the m.u.f.fled shouting inside to increase. ”Och! the poor cratur's stritchin' out like a injin-rubber man; sure he's a fut longer than he used to be--him that was a sight too long already,” said Flinders.
”Let's try to shove him through,” suggested the baffled Crossby.
Failure again followed their united efforts--except as regards the m.u.f.fled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the cellar.
”I'm afeared his legs'll come off altogether if we try to pull harder than we've done,” said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless limbs of the victim with a perplexed air.
”What a chance, boys,” suddenly exclaimed Flinders, ”to pay off old scores with a tree-mendous wallopin'! We could do it aisy in five or six minutes, an' then lave 'im to think over it for the rest of his life.”
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