The entrance opened by Jerry was a little postern door, access to which was gained through the deserted and weed-grown church-yard, and the possible use of which was entirely unsuspected by even the housekeeper, let alone the villagers at large. The men bore their burdens through this, traversing a long, low-arched passage-way, built entirely of stone and smelling like an ancient tomb. Thence their course was down a precipitous, narrow stairway, winding like the corkscrew stairs of a tower, until, at a depth of thirty feet or more, they reached a small square chamber, the air of which was mustiness itself. Here a candle was fastened in a bracket, and the men put down their loads. Here, too, it was that Jerry, when the last journey had been made, produced a bottle and glasses and dispensed his master’s hospitality in raw spirits, which the men gulped down without a whisper about water.
“Mind!—day after to-morrow; five o’clock in the morning, sharp!” said The O’Mahony, in admonitory tones. Then he added, more softly: “Jest take it easy to-morrow; loaf around to suit yourselves, so long’s you keep sober. You’ve had a pritty tough day of it Good-night. Jerry’n me’ll do the rest. Jest pull the door to when you go out.”
With answering “Good nights,” and a formal hand-shake all around, the four villagers left the room. Their tired footsteps were heard with diminishing distinctness as they went up the stairs.
Jerry turned and surveyed his master from head to foot by the light of the candle on the wall.
“O’Mahony,” he said, impressively, “you’re a divil, an’ no mistake!”
The other put the bottle to his mouth first. Then he licked his lips and chuckled grimly.
“Them fellows was scared out of their boots, wasn’t they? An’ you, too, eh?” he asked.
“Well, sir, you know it as well as I, the lives of the lot of us would have been high-priced at a thruppenny-bit.”
“Pshaw, man! You fellows don’t know what fun is. Why, she was safe as a house every minute. An’ here I was, goin’ to compliment you on gittin’ through the hull voyage without bein’ sick once—thought, at last, I was really goin’ to make a sailor of you.”
“Egor, afther to-day I’ll believe I’ve the makin’ of annything under the sun in me—or on top of it, ayther. But, sure, sir, you’ll not deny ’twas timptin’ providence saints’ good-will to come in head over heels under wather, the way we did?”