“Quick!” cried Dean. “Get another out and light it before you burn your fingers. Well done—that’s the way! Hold it more over. I want to reconnoitre, as the soldiers say.”
“Be careful!” panted Mark. “Mind you don’t slip.”
“Trust me,” said Dean. “No, no, don’t light another. It will only be waste, because I have seen it all.”
“I had better light another match,” cried Mark hoarsely.
“No, you hadn’t. Chuck that down; you are burning your fingers.”
The still burning end of the tiny taper lit up the sides of the square hole as it descended to the surface of the water and was extinguished with a faint spet.
“Now then,” cried Dean, “I have got it all fixed at the back of my eyes like what old Buck calls a fortygraff, and just where I am standing it is all straight up and down, but a little way to the left there’s a regular set of holes just as if stones had been left out. Why, it’s as easy as kissing your hand. This must have been one of the old temple wells, and these holes must have been left like steps for the old people to come down and clip their water.”
“Oh, do take care!” cried Mark.
“Won’t I just! I shall be all right. I say, old chap, what a lark!”
“Lark!” cried Mark angrily. “What do you mean by that?”