Wamby shook his head disconsolately.
“Maybe the soldiers can help us,” Harry went on. “They are able to open the door above; couldn’t we induce them to get ropes and draw us out?”
“’Tisn’t possible,” replied Wamby. “In the first place, we can’t communicate with them unless they open the trap-door, and you must remember that they are afraid of us as well as of Smithkin, for they consented to our being dumped down here; then again, even if they were willing to draw us out, how could they get the rope necessary? Certainly, they wouldn’t dare go near the King, after having let us escape.”
Just then there was a loud shriek from one of the elves at the other end of the room, followed by a chorus of shrill, elfish laughter.
“What’s the matter?” asked Wamby rather sternly.
“Kitey sat down on a pin,” was the reply, “and he jumped up at least a foot high.”
Kitey was seen rubbing himself and examining the skirt of his jacket, and then suddenly he uttered a surprised exclamation and ran up to Wamby.
“Here’s the door-pin!” he cried; “it was sticking in my coat.”
“How did it get there?” demanded Wamby.
“Perhaps,” said Harry, “when we tumbled down here it got loose and stuck in Kitey’s jacket. I remember now, I fell on top of Kitey.”