"Don't I!--to be sure I do," cried the iron-merchant, coughing and sneezing. "I feel as if I were in a room with a smoky chimney, and no window open. Oh!--oh!--I'm choking!" "Don't mind it," cried the dwarf, who seemed quite at his ease. "We shall soon be out of the smoke." "I can't stand it," cried Mr. Thorneycroft; "I shall die. Oh! poah--pish--puff!" "Come on, I tell you--you'll get some fresh air in a minute," rejoined Old Parr. "Halloa! how's this? No outlet. We're come to a dead stop." "Dead stop, indeed!" echoed the iron-merchant. "We've come to that long ago. But what new difficulty has arisen?" "Merely that the road's blocked up by a solid wall--that's all," replied Old Parr. "Blocked up!" exclaimed Thorneycroft. "Then we're entombed alive." "_I_ am," said the dwarf, with affected nonchalance. "As to you, you've the comfort of knowing it'll soon be over with you. But for me, nothing can harm me." "Don't be too sure of that," cried a voice above them. "Did you speak, Mr. Thorneycroft?" asked the dwarf. "N-o-o--not I," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm suffocating--help to drag me out." "Get out if you can," cried the voice that had just spoken. "It's Rougemont himself," cried the dwarf in alarm. "Then there's no escape." "None whatever, rascal," replied the unseen speaker. "I want you. I have more work for you to do." "I won't leave Mr. Thorneycroft," cried the dwarf resolutely. "I've promised to preserve him, and I'll keep my word." "Fool!" cried the other. "You must obey when I command." And as the words were uttered, a hand was thrust down from above, which, grasping the dwarf by the nape of the neck, drew him upwards. "Lay hold of me, Mr. Thorneycroft," screamed Old Parr. "I'm going up again--lay hold of me--pull me down." Well-nigh stifled by the thickening and pungent vapour, the poor iron-merchant found compliance impossible. Before he could reach the dwarf, the little fellow was carried off. Left to himself, Mr. Thorneycroft staggered along the passage, expecting every moment to drop, until at length a current of fresh air blew in his face, and enabled him to breathe more freely. Somewhat revived, he went on, but with great deliberation, and it was well he did so, for he suddenly arrived at the brink of a pit about eight feet in depth, into which, if he had approached it incautiously, he must infallibly have stumbled, and in all probability have broken his neck. This pit evidently communicated with a lower range of chambers, as was shown by a brazen lamp burning under an archway. A ladder was planted at one side, and by this Mr. Thorneycroft descended, but scarcely had he set foot on the ground, than he felt himself rudely grasped by a man who stepped from under the archway. The next moment, however, he was released, while the familiar voice of the Tinker exclaimed-- "Vy, bless my 'art, if it ain't Mister Thorneycroft."