"I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. The Night-Cellar. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. But I will never—never return.
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