“He ain’t drowned,” said a policeman, thrusting his lantern up a drain and peering in; “he’s too much of a rat hisself, and I wouldn’t mind laying that he’s worked his way up to light before now.” And the man stopped, gazing up the black noisome channel before him as if it possessed some attraction.
“Gone up there, safe,” said the quiet man, laughing. “Go up, Tom, and see; I’ll wait for you.”
“Officers allus goes fust to lead the way, and privates follers,” said the policeman. “Nice place, though, ain’t it?”
“Whereabouts are we now?” said the quiet man.
“Don’t zackly know,” said the man in the hair-mask. “Not far from Holborn, I should say.”
“Going up there, Tom?” said the quiet man, unscrewing the top of a small dram-flask.
“Arter you, sir,” said the policeman.
The quiet man took the “arter you” to apply to the dram-flask, which he passed to his follower; and as no one seemed disposed to crawl on hands and knees along the narrow place, the party slowly retraced their steps to where they had descended, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the clear night air.