Again, he glances up and down the street. Not a soul in sight. He cast an upward glance, over the wall of the house,--still closed in every shutter, and sullen as a vault. He crouched beside the window and began to use his iron bar. It required all the force of his almost supernatural strength, to bend the central bar, but presently it was accomplished. It yielded and was forced from its sockets. Then, resting the iron bar which he grasped, against the wall on the left, he forced the second bar from its socket, and in a few minutes, in a similar manner, the third yielded to the force of his powerful sinews. The three fell into the cellar, and produced a crashing sound as they came into contact with some loose boards. Arthur did not hesitate a moment. Grasping the iron bar, and folding his cloak about his left arm, he crept through the window and descended into the cellar. All was thick darkness there, but a faint ray came from the door which opened into the basement room. Trampling over heaps of rubbish and loose piles of boards, Arthur made his way toward the door, and did not pause a single moment, but flinging his weight against its rough boards, he forced the staple which secured it, and burst it open with a crash. Then his features were fixed, his eyes flashed, he clutched the iron bar, and advancing one step into the basement room, stood ready for the worst. A candle, burning fast toward its socket, stood on a pine table, and flung its uncertain light over a small room, with cracked ceiling and rough walls, smeared with whitewash. A coal fire smouldered in a narrow grate. Slung-Shot was there,--not on the watch precisely,--but with his brawny arms resting on the table, and his head bent on his arms. He was fast asleep, and snoring vigorously. An empty brandy bottle which stood near the light, explained the cause of his sleep. Arthur glanced at the door, which opened on the stairway, and then--"Can I cross the room and open the door without waking this wretch?" was his thought. Slung-Shot, although by no means tall, was evidently a fellow of muscle, as his broad shoulders, (inclosed in a red flannel shirt) and his half-bared arms, served to show. His face was buried against the table, and Arthur could only see the back of his head; his hair closely cut, his long ears, and the greasy locks which draggled in front of each ear, were disclosed in the flickering light. Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, advanced,--the boards creaked under his tread,--still the ruffian did not move, but snored on, in a deep, sonorous bass. Arthur placed his hand on the latch of the door-- The ruffian then moved. He raised his sleepy head, and Arthur beheld that brutal face, with its low forehead, broken nose and projecting under-jaw. "S-a-y," he cried, in that peculiar dialect, which, accompanied by an elongation of the lower-jaw, forms the _patois_ of a class of ruffians which infests the large cities, "what de thunder you 'bout?"