"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about it, either." He stooped, fumbling at a cellar window. "There's a broken pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared to descend.
"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew near the window in readiness to follow Slade down.
"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, and be quiet." He disappeared.
Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there before.
The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud.
"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key."
It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the small, old-fashioned windows. A subdued sound of voices came from the office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that direction.
"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a couple of small glasses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the glasses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, with a leer.
The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I guess not—" he began doubtfully.
"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff." Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched glasses with Slade and downed the liquor.