The String of Pearls (1850), p. 239

both sprawling to the bottom of the little staircase together. Luckily they had not to fall, for they had not been more than six or eight steps from the foot of the little flight. Terror and consternation for a few moments deprived each of them
of the power of speech. The beadle, however, was the first to recover, and he in a stentorian voice called--
"Murder! Murder!"
Then the churchwarden joined in the cries, and they buffeted each other in vain efforts to rise, each impeding the other to a degree that rendered it a matter of impossibility for either of them to get to their feet. Mr. Vickley, who was waiting in the church above, with no small degree of anxiety, the report from
below, heard these sounds of contention and calls for help with mingled horror. He at once made a rush to the door of the church, and, no doubt, would have endangered the success of all Sir Richard Blunt's plans, if he had not been caught in the arms of a tall stout man upon the very threshold of the church door.
"Help! murder! Who are you?"
"Crotchet they calls me, and Crotchet's my name. London my birth place, is yourn the same? What's the row?"
"Call a constable. There's blue murder going on in the vaults below."
"The devil there is. Just you get in there, will you, and don't you stir for your life, old fellow."
So saying, Mr. Crotchet, who knew the importance of secrecy in the whole transaction, and who had been purposely awaiting for Sir Richard Blunt, thrust Vickley into a pew, and slamm ed the door of it shut. Down fell the overseer
to the floor, paralysed with terror; and then Mr. Crotchet at once proceeded to the opening in the floor of the church, and descended without a moment's hesitation.
"Hilloa!" he cried, as he alighted at the bottom of the stairs upon the churchwarden's back. "Hilloa, Sir Richard, where are you?"
"Here," said a voice, and with the torch nearly extinguished, Sir Richard Blunt made his appearance from the passage. "Who is there?"
"Crotchet, it is."
"Indeed. Why, what brought you here ?"
"What a row."
"Why--why, what's all this? You are standing upon somebody. Why bless my heart it's---"
Out went the torch.
"Fire!---help!--murder!" shouted the beadle, I'm being suffocated. "Oh, conwulsions! Here's a death for a beadle. Murder! robbery. Fire---oh----oh----oh."
The churchwarden groaned awfully.
"Ascend, and get a light," said Sir Richard. " Quick, Crotchet, quick! God only knows what is the matter with all these people."
Both Crotchet and Sir Richard Blunt scrambled over the bodies of the churchwarden and the beadle, and soon reached the church. The churchwarden made a desperate effort, and, shaking himself free of the beadle, he ascended likewise, and rolled into a pew, upon the floor of which he sat, looking a little deranged.
"If you don't come up," said Sir Richard Blunt, directing his voice down the staircase, "we will replace the stone, and you may bid adieu to the world."
"Conwulsions!" roared the beadle. " Oh, don't---conwulsions!"
Up he tumbled, with the most marvellous celerity, and rolled into the church,
never stopping until he was brought up by the steps in front of the communion-
table, and there he lay, panting and glaring around him, having left his cocked
hat in the regions below. Sir Richard Blunt looked ghastly pale, which Crotchet
observing, induced him to take a small flask from his pocket, filled with choice
brandy, which he handed to his chief.
"Thank you," said Sir Richard.