(continued)

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot.  I was on the verge of screaming;  I bit my hand.  For a time the tentacle was silent.  I could have fancied it had been withdrawn.  Presently, with an abrupt click, it gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the cellar again.  For a minute I was not sure.  Apparently it had taken a lump of coal to examine.

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had become cramped, and then listened.  I whispered passionate prayers for safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.  Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping the furniture.

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door and closed it.  I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the cellar door.  Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it gone?

At last I decided that it had.

It came into the scullery no more;  but I lay all the tenth day in the close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even to crawl out for the drink for which I craved.  It was the eleventh day before I ventured so far from my security.

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