“It shows as how there’s foul air there, bo—that’s what the match’s going out means. It tells us not to go in!”
Tom said this with a chuckle, for which Hiram gave him a dig in the ribs.
“Hev yer own way, Chips, fur a bit,” he said; “but I’m jiggered if ye air a-going to kep me from prospectin’ thet thaar hole.”
“Nobody wants to,” retorted Tom. “Only just wait a bit till the wentilation gets better and blows out all the gas. It would a-pizened you if I’d let you go in at first, as you wanted.”
“Wa-al, go ahead, an’ hev another try fur to see ef it’s right now.”
In reply, Tom lit a second match, and held it in the opening of the cave as before.
This time it did not flicker so much, burning for a longer time, before the faint flame finally expired.
“Better,” said Tom; “but it ain’t quite safe yet.”
“Hurry up,” replied Hiram. “I’m bustin’ to see thet boocaneer tree-sor ez the mate wer talkin’ on!”
After an interval of another quarter of an hour or so, while we all waited on the tenter-hooks of suspense, an inquisitive land tortoise waddling up to see what we were about, Tom lit a third match.