“Can’t you find the candle?” said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. “There’s a flint and steel on the ledge over the door.”
“Is there, my lad? I didn’t know it,” muttered Jem. “Jem, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, my lad, I’m here.”
“Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds.”
“Oh, my poor dear lad!”
“Eh? What do you mean? You’re playing tricks, Jem, and it’s too bad. Get a light.”
“My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas’ Don,” groaned Jem, “and we’re pitched down here in a cellar.”
“What?”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don’t mind for myself,” groaned Jem, in his despair, “but what will she do?”
“Jem!”