"If we can't get that trapdoor open now, with these to help us," he
remarked, panting and wiping the dotted blood off his sword on a
Hindu prisoner's trousers, "it'll be a heavier proposition than I think!"
"There's a trick to it," said Juggut Khan, panting too, for the battle
had been fierce and furious while it lasted. "The fakir knows the
trick. It is heavy, in any case. But, if we make him tell us, we
can manage it."
There followed delay while the fakir was induced to forego the pleasure
of a sulking fit. He seemed like a child, anxious to emphasize their
dependence on his knowledge, and needing to be recompelled to each
new thing they needed of him. He was perfectly content, though,
to surrender when he felt the weight of a cleaning-rod on his anatomy,
or something in the way of fire--a match or cigarette for instance--
placed where he would get the most sensation from it.
Then followed more delay, while they rigged a lever of sorts, and
a rope through an iron ring in the trap, and while Juggut Khan hunted
for the secret catch that the fakir swore was hidden underneath a
smaller stone that hinged in the middle of the floor.
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