For the taut rope was being jerked violently by the struggles of the weight at the end of it.  Both men with grunts and sighs hauled it in foot by foot.

“All right, sir,” cried George, cheerfully.

He had one foot against the well, and was pulling manfully; the burden was nearing the top.  A long pull and a strong pull, and the face of a dead man with mud in the eyes and nostrils came peering over the edge.  Behind it was the ghastly face of his master; but this he saw too late, for with a great cry he let go his hold of the rope and stepped back.  The suddenness overthrew his assistant, and the rope tore through his hands.  There was a frightful splash.

“You fool!” stammered Bob, and ran to the well helplessly.

“Run!” cried George.  “Run for another line.”

He bent over the coping and called eagerly down as his assistant sped back to the stables shouting wildly.  His voice re-echoed down the shaft, but all else was silence.

CUPBOARD LOVE

In the comfortable living-room at Negget’s farm, half parlour and half kitchen, three people sat at tea in the waning light of a November afternoon.  Conversation, which had been brisk, had languished somewhat, owing to Mrs. Negget glancing at frequent intervals toward the door, behind which she was convinced the servant was listening, and checking the finest periods and the most startling suggestions with a warning ’ssh!

“Go on, uncle,” she said, after one of these interruptions.

“I forget where I was,” said Mr. Martin Bodfish, shortly.

“Under our bed,” Mr. Negget reminded him.

“Yes, watching,” said Mrs. Negget, eagerly.

It was an odd place for an ex-policeman, especially as a small legacy added to his pension had considerably improved his social position, but Mr. Bodfish had himself suggested it in the professional hope that the person who had taken Mrs. Negget’s gold brooch might try for further loot.  He had, indeed, suggested baiting the dressing-table with the farmer’s watch, an idea which Mr. Negget had promptly vetoed.

“I can’t help thinking that Mrs. Pottle knows something about it,” said Mrs. Negget, with an indignant glance at her husband.

“Mrs. Pottle,” said the farmer, rising slowly and taking a seat on the oak settle built in the fireplace, “has been away from the village for near a fortnit.”

“I didn’t say she took it,” snapped his wife.  “I said I believe she knows something about it, and so I do.  She’s a horrid woman.  Look at the way she encouraged her girl Looey to run after that young traveller from Smithson’s.  The whole fact of the matter is, it isn’t your brooch, so you don’t care.”

“I said—­” began Mr. Negget.

“I know what you said,” retorted his wife, sharply, “and I wish you’d be quiet and not interrupt uncle.  Here’s my uncle been in the police twenty-five years, and you won’t let him put a word in edgeways.’