A moment’s pause, and then the Head Captain nodded.
“All right, men,” he breathed.
They went carefully through the thick hay that strewed the upper floor, avoiding the cracks and pits that loosened boards and decayed planking offered the unwary foot. With unconscious directness the Lieutenant turned to the great pile of hay that usually marked the end of this expedition, but the Head Captain frowned and passed by the short ladder that led to the summit. He pushed through an avenue of old machinery, crawled over two old sleighs and under a grindstone frame, and emerged into a dim, almost empty corner.
The heat of the hay was intense. The stuffy, dry smell of it filled their nostrils. Where the bright, wide ray of sunlight fell from the little window in the apex, the air was seen to be dancing and palpitating with millions of tiny particles that kept up a continuous churning motion. The perspiration dripped from the Vicar’s round cheeks; she panted with the heat.
Walking on his tiptoes, the Head Captain sought the darkest depths of the corner, stumbling over an old covered chest. He stopped, he put his hand on the lid. The two attendant officers gasped. The Head Captain, with infinite caution, lifted that lid.
Suddenly a dull, echoing crash shook the floor. The Vicar squeaked in nervous terror. I say squeaked, because with grand presence of mind the Lieutenant smothered her certain scream in the folds of his ever-ready sash, and only a faint chirp disturbed the deathly silence that followed the crash. The Head Captain’s hand trembled, but he held the cover of the chest and waited. Again that hollow boom, followed by a rustling, as of hay being dragged down, and a champing, swallowing, gurgling sound.
“Smothered her certain scream in the folds of his ever-ready sash.”
“Nothin’ but the horses,” whispered the Lieutenant, removing his sash. “Shut up, now!”
The Vicar breathed again. The Head Captain bent over the chest.