Thus, each supported against the stones by a shoulder, they breathe hard for a moment, and then sink into a slumber in which they both slide down to the ground.  Aroused by the shock, they sit up quite dazed, brush away the swarming snakes and monkies, are freshly alarmed by discovering that they are now actually sitting upon that perverse light behind them, and, by a simultaneous impulse, begin crawling about in search of the ladder.  Unable to see anything with all the light behind him, but fancying that he discerns a gleam beyond a dark object near at hand, Mr. Bumstead rises to a standing attitude by a series of complex manoeuvres, and plants a foot on something.

“I’morth’larrer!” he cries, spiritedly.

“Th’larrer’s on me!” answers Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in evidently great bewilderment.

Then ensue a momentary wild struggle and muffled crash; for each gentleman, coming blindly upon the other, has taken the light glimmering at the other’s back for the light at the top of the ladder, and, further mistaking the other in the dark for the ladder itself, has attempted to climb him.  Mr. Bumstead, however, has got the first step; whereupon, Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in resenting what he takes for the ladder’s inexcusable familiarity, has twisted both himself and his equally deluded companion into a pretty hard fall.

Another interval of hard breathing, and then the organist of Saint Cow’s asks:  “Di’you hear anything drop?”

“Yshir, th’larrer got throwed, f’rimpudence to a gen’l’m’n,” is the peevish return of old MORTARITY, who immediately falls asleep as he lies, with his lantern under his spine.

In his sleep, he dreams that Bumstead examines him closely, with a view to gaining some clue to the mystery of the light behind both their backs; and, on finding the lantern under him, and, studying it profoundly for some time, is suddenly moved to feel along his own back.  He dreams that Bumstead thereupon finds his own lantern, and exclaims, after half an hour’s analytical reflection, “It musht’ave slid round while John MCLAUGHLIN was intosh’cated.”  Then, or soon after, the dreamer awakes, and can discern two Mr. BUMSTEADS seated upon the step-ladders, with a lantern, baby-like, on each knee.

“You two men are awake at last, eh?” say the organists, with peculiar smiles.

“Yes, gentlemen,” return the MCLAUGHLINS, with yawns.

They ascend silently from the cellar, each believing that he is accompanied by two companions, and rendered moodily distrustful thereby.

    “Aina maina mona—­Mike. 
    Bassalone, bona—­Strike!”

sings a small, familiar voice, when they stand again above ground, and a stone whizzes between their heads.

In another moment Bumstead has the fell Smalley by the collar, and is shaking him like a yard of carpet.

“You wretched little tarrier!” he cries in a fury, “you’ve been spying around to-night, to find out something about my Spiritualism that may be distorted to injure my Ritualistic standing.”