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Updated: June 9, 2025
Wagg set down the shield on its edge, as if needing to rest for a moment. "Open that chimney door and dodge in. Pull the door to behind you." At the base of the chimney Vaniman beheld the iron door provided for the convenience of cleaners and repair men. The padlock of the door was unhooked. He lifted the door from its latch, crawled into the chimney, and pulled the door shut.
"Good stuff, Bart! Always on your job, eh?" "Always!" agreed Mr. Wagg. The warden went on his way and the guard marched to the convict with a manner which expressed a determination to give No. 279 an earful. He stood over Vaniman, who had dropped back to the chair, and the two of them swapped stares. "I want to get out I want to get out!" whimpered Vaniman. Mr. Wagg nodded. "What must I do?"
It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in the scene. It is a musical one and, to the surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr. Wagg.
"I reckon she's about due," muttered Mr. Wagg. He stopped without easy jumping distance of the corner of a shop and slowly lighted his pipe as an excuse for stopping. His reckoning was correct. The hillock heaved. The mining had been skillfully done; the mass of rocks and earth was hoisted from behind and slid toward the pit.
Vaniman found a bit more than mere suggestion in Wagg's manner of invitation. With his shotgun in the hook of his arm he presented his wonted appearance as the guard at the prison. It was perfectly apparent that Mr. Wagg proposed to keep his eye on the promiser of the fifty-fifty split. But Wagg did not refer to the matter of the money while they strolled in the woods.
The boys who bully him will mollify towards him, and accept his pie and sweetmeats. They will have feasts in the bedroom; and that wine will taste more delicious to them than the best out of the Doctor's cellar. The cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg will tell his most dreadful story and sing his best song for a slice of that pie. What a jolly night they will have!
Wagg was even more impatient than the others. Though Vaniman had been cruelly tortured by thoughts of the injustice that had been visited on him, by his reflections that the Egyptians had shown him no consideration, he had nursed the hope that he might contrive to give them back their money after he had dragged from Britt the truth.
However, shortly after twelve o'clock that night and the night being particularly black with an overcast sky Bartley Wagg opened the iron door of the big chimney and called forth Frank Vaniman and led him out through the little door at the side of the carriage entrance. There was a conveyance waiting there, a good-sized van, drawn by a solid-looking horse. Mr.
Vaniman demanded, resolved on clearing the matter up once for all. But the lethargic Mr. Wagg was manifestly unable to turn his slow wits on the single track of the mind and start them off in the opposite direction. "No matter about him now," said the short man. "Give his mind time. A toadstool grows fast after it gets started." This meek surrender helped Vaniman to regain his poise.
I dare say they're going to have treacle if they are good. I'll take an opportunity of telling old Pendennis when we get back to town," Mr. Wagg chuckled out. "Don't see the fun," said Mr. Pynsent. "Never thought you did," growled Wagg between his teeth; they walked home rather sulkily. Wagg told the story at dinner very smartly, with wonderful accuracy of observation.
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