and a gothic door almost too small to get in at.

“That's a real flagstaff, you see,” said Wemmick, “and on Sundays I run up a real flag.

Then look here. After I have crossed this bridge, I hoist it up — so — and cut off the communication.”

The bridge was a plank, and it crossed a chasm about four feet wide and two deep. But it was very pleasant to see the pride with which he hoisted it up and made it fast; smiling as he did so, with a relish and not merely mechanically.

“At nine o'clock every night, Greenwich time,” said Wemmick, “the gun fires. There he is, you see! And when you hear him go, I think you'll say he's a Stinger.”