"Lie still down below for a few weeks, or go out and be scragged," said Dick Flairer. "Come, Bill, be a man; and don't take on in this here way. Besides, I'm in a hurry, and must be off. I've brought you enough grub for three days, as I shan't come here too often till the business has blowed over a little."
Bill Bolter took a long draught from a quart bottle of rum which his friend had brought with him; and he then felt his spirits revive. Horrible as the prospect of a long sojourn in the dungeon appeared, it was still preferable to the fearful doom which must inevitably follow his capture; and, accordingly, the criminal once more returned to his hiding-place.
Dick Flairer promised to return on the third evening from that time; and the trap-door again closed over the head of the murderer.
Bolter supped off a portion of the provisions which his friend had brought him, and then lay down upon the hard stone bench to sleep. A noisome stench entered the dungeon from the Ditch, and the rats ran over the person of the inmate of that subterranean hole. Repose was impossible; the miserable wretch therefore sate up, and began to smoke.
By accident he kicked his leg a little way beneath the stone bench: the heel of his boot encountered something that yielded to the touch; and a strange noise followed.
That noise was like the rattling of bones!
The pipe fell from the man's grasp; and he himself was stupefied with sudden terror.
At length, exercising immense violence over his feelings, he determined to ascertain whether the horrible suspicions which had entered his mind, were well-founded or not.
He thrust his hand beneath the bench, and encountered the mouldering bones of a human skeleton.
With indescribable feelings of agony and horror he threw himself upon the bench—his hair on end, and his heart palpitating violently.