"Well, I do like that, Master Fred. I mayn't be a scholar, and I never
larnt Latin, and that sort of stuff, but I'll grow vegetables and make
cider with any man in Coombeland."
"What has making cider to do with tinder, you great oaf!" cried Fred,
angrily, so as to hide his emotion.
"Nothing at all, sir; only you seem to think I'm such a bog-walker that
I haven't sense to know how to strike a light."
"Well, where is the light? and how can you expect to get one without
tinder?"
"I don't. Here's the tinder in a box, but all the sparks are blown over
it by the draught."
"Then strike lower man."
"There, then," cried Samson, viciously, as he nicked harder, with the
result that one of the tiny sparks, instead of fading out, seemed to
remain motionless on the floor. This spark Samson blew till it
increased and glowed more brightly, showing his face close to the light,
and the point of something yellow being applied to the red glow.
That something yellow, being a pointed match dipped in brimstone, began
to melt, and then boil and burst into a blue fluttering flame, which
ignited the match; and the next minute Samson held up the lighted candle
close to the arched roof of the passage, exclaiming, "There!" in a
triumphant tone; and then, "Why, this is only a big drain, Master Fred!"
"Hist! Give me the light," said Fred, as he listened intently.
"Going along here, sir?"
"Yes, of course."
"All right, sir; I'm candlestick," said Samson, making a rattling noise
as he replaced the light-engendering apparatus in his pouch.
"No, no; I'll go first," said Fred, impatiently.
"Yes, sir; you shall go first after the light."
"Samson!"
"Yes, sir. What would your mother say, if I let you go straight into
danger like this, with me here?"
"Will you recollect that you are a soldier, sir?"
"Of course I will, Master Fred. How is a man to help it, with an iron
pot on his head rubbing him bald? Ready, sir?"
"Ready? Yes."
"Then here goes!" said Samson. "Can't expect a man to obey orders when
he's underground."
Samson strode on with the candle in his left hand and his sword now in
his right, leading the way, with his young master close behind, and
their shadows following and seeming to dance on the floor and walls,
which glistened here and there with moisture.
They proceeded slowly, Samson twice over hazarding a remark on the
dampness, but only to be sternly told to proceed, till at last the
little flight of steps appeared leading into the vault, where they came
to a sudden halt, for something suddenly flashed in the light of the
candle, and a harsh voice cried--
"Stand!"