Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.
“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be tomorrow morning?” said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.
“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone.
The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.
“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”
“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a threatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”
“You may depend upon me, young man,” answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. “On everybody’s account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”
“I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,” remarked Monks. “Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.”