“Are we going down there?” he asked in a startled tone.
Gates took it more philosophically.
“Really,” he said, “considering what I have paid at this hotel—in advance, too—I think I deserve better accommodations.”
“It is the best we have,” said Alonzo briefly.
“Then, my friend, I advise you to give up keeping a hotel.”
“You won’t find it uncomfortable,” said Alonzo. “It’s rather dark, to be sure.”
“Must I go down in de cellar?” asked Herr Schmidt, his ample countenance bespeaking his discontent, not to say alarm.
“Yes, and be quick about it,” said the robber, losing patience.
Gates led the way, Morton followed, and the Dutchman brought up the rear of the captives. But the stairs were steep, he lost his footing, and, when a little more than half-way down, he tumbled, falling helplessly on the earthen floor. Under the impression that he was dangerously wounded, he burst into a series of cries of a stentorian character which irritated his conductor.
“Stop that nonsense,” he said roughly, “or I’ll stick this knife into you, you overgrown hog, and then you’ll have some reason to scream.”