"Have people gotten lost in here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully. "They say there's some that's gone in and never come out again. She's quite a cave."
I began to walk more gingerly into the blackness.
"I suppose," I said to him presently, "there are toads and snakes and such things here?"
He hastened to set my mind at rest on that.
"Oh, Lord bless you, yes!" he declared. "Bats, too."
"And I suppose some of those holes you speak of are full of snakes?"
"Most likely." His voice reverberated in the darkness. "But I can't be sure. Nobody that's ever been in them holes ain't lived to tell the tale."
By this time we had reached a point at which no glimmer of light from the mouth of the cave was visible. We were feeling our way along, running our hands over the damp rocks and putting our feet before us with the utmost caution. I knew, of course, that it would add a good deal to my story if one of our party fell into a hole and was never again heard from, but the more I thought about it the more advisable it seemed to me that I should not be that one. I had an engagement for dinner that evening, and besides, if I fell in, who would write the story? Certainly the driver of the auto-hack, for all his good will, could hardly do it justice; whereas, if he fell in I could at a pinch drive the little Ford back to the city.
I dropped behind. But when I did that he stopped.