THE GOD OF THE GONGS
The head wore a disconcerted expression, as did, perhaps, that of St. John the Baptist.
In a moment he began to laugh a little. "This wood must be rotten," said Flambeau. "Though it seems odd it should bear me, and you go through the weak place. Let me help you out."
But the little priest was looking rather curiously at the corners and edges of the wood alleged to be rotten, and there was a sort of trouble on his brow.
"Come along," cried Flambeau impatiently, still with his big brown hand extended. "Don't you want to get out?"
The priest was holding a splinter of the broken wood between his finger and thumb, and did not immediately reply. At last he said thoughtfully: "Want to get out? Why, no. I rather think I want to get in." And he dived into the darkness under the wooden floor so abruptly as to knock off his big curved clerical hat and leave it lying on the boards above, without any clerical head in it.
Flambeau looked once more inland and out to sea, and once more could see nothing but seas as wintry as the snows, and snows as level as the sea.
There came a scurrying noise behind him, and the little priest came scrambling out of the hole faster than he had fallen in. His face was no
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