Whether it was her hurrying him that made him awkward or jerky, or whether it was just that something had gone wrong with the lock or the key—you remember we had noticed it was stiffer than usual when we came in—I can't say. But, however that may have been, this is what happened. The key wouldn't turn in the lock! Gerald fumbled at it for some time, then Tib and I got impatient.
"What is the matter?" said Tib.
"What are you doing?" said I; and we both ran forward, pushing poor Gerald aside, and each trying to get hold of the key. We each took a turn at it, like the first day, only now our flurry and fear made us less cool and careful. It was no use; we pressed, and pulled, and tugged, we took the key out, and rubbed it and cleaned it as if we had been Bluebeard's wife, and put it back again to try afresh. No use!
"I really think keys have got spirits in them sometimes," said Tib. "They are so contrary."
And then, hot and worried, beginning to be frightened too, we looked at our sore fingers, which the horrid key had bruised and scratched, and asked ourselves what to do.
Tib started forward again—she had spied a strong bit of stick in a corner.
"I believe it's only stiffness, after all," she said. "There can't be anything the matter with the key."
She seized the stick—it was a very stout one—ran it through the ring of the key, and before Gerald and I really knew what she was doing, she had grasped the two ends with her two hands, and was turning vigorously.
"Ah! I told you so," she cried, as she felt that the stick did turn, "it only wanted some strength. But oh, Gussie! oh, Gerald!" she screamed the next moment, "see, see!"
She drew back a little—we did see—the key had broken, not turned! the ring was still hanging on the stick; the useless end of the key stuck out of the lock as if in mockery.