“Yes,” I muttered back. “What was it?” He ran down the slope to the sand, and I followed at a leap, thinking he meant that the cliff was falling. But when I saw his face I knew that some excitement other than fear was moving him. “It was the badger,” he said, turning sharp on me. “Now, do you understand what that means?” Perhaps I had a glimmering; but I shook my head feebly to repudiate it. “Why!” he cried reproachfully. “Dicky, you gowk! If he goes to earth at the top and comes and puts his nose out here, what does it mean but that the crypts ain’t as blocked as we supposed!” “There must be a passage through, of course,” I murmured. Harry nodded, primming his lips. “Well?” said he. “Why, it don’t follow that where a badger can go, we can.” “It does with me,” he said shortly. An odd little silence fell between us. Then Harry turned away, and began to move off, whistling. At a bound I was after him, with a furious red face, and, seizing his arm, had whipped him round. “I’m going to try to get into the hill up there,” I cried. “If you’re afraid to come too, stop behind like a coward!” He stared at me amazed; then fell a’ grinning. “I never said you were a coward,” he retorted. “But you meant it,” I answered, fuming. We were bristling, actually, as on that far-off day when we had first come into collision. Our fists were clenched; the backs of our necks tingled; it was really a pregnant moment. But the good old fellow resolved it, and in the best way possible. The fire suddenly left his eyes. “O, Dick,” he said; “what asses we are! Look here, I’ll tell you--I should funk it going up there alone, and you wouldn’t, it seems; that’s the truth. I only wanted to dare you, for my own sake.” “O, all right!” I said, pocketing my fists, and pretty ashamed of myself. I kicked the sand about, not knowing how to escape the situation gracefully. At last I in my turn blurted out: “What rot this is! Let’s forget it all, and just discuss ways and means.” “You really intend to try?” said Harry, his face relighting. “If I die for it now,” I answered. “O, well!” he said, heaving a profound sigh. “It’s simple enough. We’ll just climb up there, and say ‘open sesame,’ and walk in.” This little inspiration to identify our adventure with Ali Baba’s was quite a happy one. Not forty Dutch smugglers, but forty beautiful Persian thieves with scimitars and waxed moustaches! It tinctured with romance at once the thought of the ugly sights it was possible we might encounter. Our half fearful design became, in a flash of coloured light, a tingling conspiracy.