“And what may that be?”
“Oh! Just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token of our kind regards.—Officer! Bring forward the ointment.”
A general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag.
“My worthy friend,” proceeded the former speaker, “that jar is full of ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers. Now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast I have just named in spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants of Crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by furnishing you with abundant means of ‘feathering your own nest.’”
A roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. Then there was a pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for Foster’s answer. For a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly: “I know it will be of no use for me to say what I think of the utter baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my judge. You have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for I will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. But I warn you that—”
At this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.—“The game’s up!” cried one of the men with the blackened faces; “every one for himself!” and a rush was made for the steps. But it was too late: a strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from the vault. As each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed—all except Foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by Thomas Bradly and James Barnes, who now came forward.
When the vault had been searched by the constables, and they had ascertained that no one was still secreted there, the whole of the prisoners were marched into the open court and placed in a row. The sergeant, who had come with his men, then passed his lantern from face to face. There was no mistake about Sharples; his false hair and beard had become disarranged in the scuffle, and other marks of identification were immediately observed. “Levi Sharples,” said the sergeant, “you’re our prisoner—we’ve been looking out for you for a long time; you’ll have to come with us.—As for the rest of you, well, I think you won’t any of you forget this night; so you’d best get home as fast as you can and wash your faces.—Constables, take the handcuffs off ’em.”
No sooner was this done than the whole body of the conspirators vanished in a moment, while the police proceeded to carry off their prisoner. But before the officers were clear of the ruins, a strange moaning sound startled all who remained behind. “Eh! What’s that? Surely it ain’t—a—a—” exclaimed Jim Barnes, in great terror. The sergeant, who was just leaving with his men, turned back. All stood silent, and then there was distinctly heard again a deep groaning, as of one in pain. “Lend a light here, Thomas,” cried the sergeant to one of his constables. All, except those who were guarding the prisoner, proceeded in the direction from which the unearthly sounds came. “Have a care,” cried Bradly; “there’s some ugly holes hereabouts.” Picking their way carefully, they came at last to the mouth of an old well: it had been long choked up to within a few feet of the top, but still it was an awkward place to fall into.
There could now be no mistake; the groaning came from the old well, and it was a human cry of distress. “Who’s there?” cried the sergeant, throwing his light down upon a writhing figure. “It’s me—it’s Ned Taylor. Lord help me! I’ve done for myself. Oh, help me out for pity’s sake!” With great difficulty, and with terrible suffering to the poor wretch himself, they contrived at last to draw him up, and to place him with his back against a heap of fallen masonry.
“What’s to be done now?” asked the sergeant. “Leave him to us,” replied Bradly; “we’ll get him home. I see how it is: he’s one of these chaps as has been taking part in this sad business, and in his hurry to get off he has tumbled into this old well and injured himself. We’ll look after him, poor fellow; he shall be properly cared for. Good-night, sergeant, and thank you for your timely help.”