The vaults were very spacious, and very old.  There had been a stone crypt down there, when bygones were not bygones; some said, part of a monkish refectory; some said, of a chapel; some said, of a Pagan temple.  It was all one now.  Let who would make what he liked of a crumbled pillar and a broken arch or so.  Old Time had made what he liked of it, and was quite indifferent to contradiction.

The close air, the musty smell, and the thunderous rumbling in the streets above, as being, out of the routine of ordinary life, went well enough with the picture of pretty Marguerite holding her own against those two.  So Vendale went on until, at a turning in the vaults, he saw a light like the light he carried.

“O!  You are here, are you, Joey?”

“Oughtn’t it rather to go, ‘O! You’re here, are you, Master George?’ For it’s my business to be here.  But it ain’t yourn.”

“Don’t grumble, Joey.”

“O! I don’t grumble,” returned the Cellarman.  “If anything grumbles, it’s what I’ve took in through the pores; it ain’t me.  Have a care as something in you don’t begin a grumbling, Master George.  Stop here long enough for the wapours to work, and they’ll be at it.”

His present occupation consisted of poking his head into the bins, making measurements and mental calculations, and entering them in a rhinoceros-hide-looking note-book, like a piece of himself.

“They’ll be at it,” he resumed, laying the wooden rod that he measured with across two casks, entering his last calculation, and straightening his back, “trust ’em!  And so you’ve regularly come into the business, Master George?”

“Regularly.  I hope you don’t object, Joey?”

“I don’t, bless you.  But Wapours objects that you’re too young.  You’re both on you too young.”

“We shall got over that objection day by day, Joey.”

“Ay, Master George; but I shall day by day get over the objection that I’m too old, and so I shan’t be capable of seeing much improvement in you.”

The retort so tickled Joey Ladle that he grunted forth a laugh and delivered it again, grunting forth another laugh after the second edition of “improvement in you.”

“But what’s no laughing matter, Master George,” he resumed, straightening his back once more, “is, that young Master Wilding has gone and changed the luck.  Mark my words.  He has changed the luck, and he’ll find it out. I ain’t been down here all my life for nothing! I know by what I notices down here, when it’s a-going to rain, when it’s a-going to hold up, when it’s a-going to blow, when it’s a-going to be calm. I know, by what I notices down here, when the luck’s changed, quite as well.”

“Has this growth on the roof anything to do with your divination?” asked Vendale, holding his light towards a gloomy ragged growth of dark fungus, pendent from the arches with a very disagreeable and repellent effect.  “We are famous for this growth in this vault, aren’t we?”