"Are you master here, or am I?" said Benson hoarsely.

George came back slowly, a glance at his master's face stopping the
protest upon his tongue, and he stood by watching him sulkily as he sat
on the well and removed his outer garments. Both men watched him
curiously, as having completed his preparations he stood grim and silent
with his hands by his sides.

"I wish you'd let me go, sir," said George, plucking up courage to
address him. "You ain't fit to go, you've got a chill or something. I
shouldn't wonder it's the typhoid. They've got it in the village bad."

For a moment Benson looked at him angrily, then his gaze softened. "Not
this time, George," he said, quietly. He took the looped end of the rope
and placed it under his arms, and sitting down threw one leg over the
side of the well.

"How are you going about it, sir?" queried George, laying hold of the
rope and signing to Bob to do the same.

"I'll call out when I reach the water," said Benson; "then pay out three
yards more quickly so that I can get to the bottom."

"Very good, sir," answered both.

Their master threw the other leg over the coping and sat motionless. His
back was turned toward the men as he sat with head bent, looking down the
shaft. He sat for so long that George became uneasy.