CHAPTER XXXV.
THE BLACK TRADE—A TRAFFIC IN DEATH—A PLACE OF HORROR—CAN IT
BE TRUE?—TWO BOYS IN ONE SHROUD—A FIGHT WITH A SHARK—GIVING HIM THE
SACK—DEEP-SEA FISHING ON A NOVEL PLAN.
The two black-looking ruffians looked about them stealthily as though they were on no good errand there.
Then one of them listened at the door awhile.
"You had better lock the door, Fleon," said one of the men. "What we have to do mustn't be overlooked."
"True."
The boys heard the door closed and locked, and the sound seemed to lock out another hope for them.
"Now, Fleon, come here."
"Well, what now?"
"We must come to terms."
"Of course, Barthes, but there is no need to go far into that matter; the terms are simple enough."
"You are allowed forty-five francs for each burial, that is, for cost of the shell and sheet."
"No, forty only."
"Well, forty; and if I sign the register in my quality of head gravedigger, you can go and get your money at once. Besides, you will have my sacks."
"You drive a bargain like a Jew. Keep your sacks."
"And drop the bodies out into the water?"
"Of course."
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"They would float."
"No matter, the sharks below would soon take care of the few that floated."
"Are we agreed," cried Fleon, "for halves?"
The other made some grumbling rejoinder, but grumbling he closed with the proposition.
"Very good, very good," said Fleon, rubbing his hands. "Now let us cast them up."
"One, two, four, six, eight, eleven, thirteen," said Barthes.
Now they were standing so close to the pile of sacks that the boys in their novel place of concealment could not only hear every word, but they actually felt the speakers brushing against them.
But they dared not speak.
They even held their breath.
They heard, and partly understood, yet could not believe that they guessed aright.
What could it mean?
Surely not—
No, no, no!
The thought maddened the boys.
It was too horrible.
Yet what did the rest of the sacks contain?
Besides, there were no other sacks in the shed but these.
Both the boys heard the conversation.
Yet so fearful a notion was it that each felt that he had not heard aright.
They dared not speak.
And their worst fears were indeed correct.
* * * * *
"Hullo!"
"What now?"
"Thirteen."
"Yes."
"You are wrong," said Fleon; "count them again."
The man obeyed.
"Thirteen; I was sure of it."
"Well, that's a rum go," said Fleon. "I am positive that there were only twelve."
"There's a baker's dozen now," said Barthes, with his brutal laugh; "the more the merrier."
"Right."
"What are you staring at?"
"I can't make out that thirteenth one."
"Well, I don't see that that's any thing to weep over. Thirteen at dinner is an awkward number, they say; but I dare say that the sharks won't object to it; they're nor so weak-minded as to be superstitious. Ha, ha, ha!"
But still Fleon could not get over this last sack.
"I've got it."
"What, where the last sack came from?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, out with it, and ease your mind—not that I care much, so long as we land the money."
"Why, they have brought the last one in from the hospital fever-ward; I heard the bell tolling at midnight, and I remember now that they said another was all but gone."
"Why, of course," said Barthes; "and see how the lazy beggars haven't even taken the trouble to tie the neck of the sack round."
"That's easily done."
Before the boys could guess what was next to take place, the sack was jerked over, and a rope was twisted around the neck of the sack, thus excluding nearly all the air.
But young Jack had already grown desperate, and he held his knife in his hand ready for an emergency.
The jerk had sent the knife through the sack about two inches, and it prodded Barthes in the hand.
"Hullo!"
He yelled and drew back his hand
"What now?"
"I've cut myself."
"Why, how on earth did you manage that?"
"There's a knife sticking out of the sack. Let's open it and get it out."
"What for?"
"It's a pity to throw such a thing into the sea."
The boys shivered.
This time there could be no mistaking the words.
"Jack," whispered Harry Girdwood, "do you hear?"
"Yes; let us show ourselves, and go back to prison, or—"
But before he could complete his proposition, they were jerked in the sack up on to their feet.
"Come, let's do it quick"
"Good!"
"Phew!" grunted Barthes; "it's precious heavy."
"Heavy enough for two," said Fleon.
"Over with it. Now, then, both together at the word three."
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
They raised the sack on to the window ledge and—
"Oh, murder!" cried Barthes, his cheek blanching with terror. "I felt something move in the sack."
"So did I," faltered Fleon.
"It's alive," cried the man Barthes, turning pale.
"Over with it, then; sharp."
It was poised for an instant, no more, over the dizzy height.
Then down it went.
As it fell, a wild, despairing shriek went up to Heaven.
A piteous cry.
It was cut short by the sharp flight through the air.
A splash.
Then all was still.
* * * * *
The two ruffians stood staring at each other, their eyes half starting from their sockets.
The perspiration stood out in big beads upon their foreheads, and they shook like ague-stricken wretches.
"Look over," said Fleon in a hoarse whisper. "What do you see?"
"I see," responded the other, in the same constrained tone, "there's a shark! I see his fin."
"There's plenty more in the neighbourhood."
"No; he's all alone, and, my eye! what a feast he'll have!"
"I see him! He strikes for the bottom. He's got him, whether he's dead or alive."