The table was removed to one corner of the inner servants’ hall.

The domestics were now sitting in a circle, face to face.

“The rope,” said the Skeleton Chief, hoarsely.

In an instant each of his crew produced a long stout rope, about two inches round, and flourished it before the eyes of their captain with a savage grin.

“I thought so,” groaned Roger. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“All U.P. now,” Tim groaned.

“They wouldn’t believe me,” said the footman.

“Good-bye everybody,” said Tim.

Roger and Tim had another sound thwack on the jaws from their skeleton guardians, which shook every tooth in their heads.

“Sling your ropes,” said the grim Skeleton Chief, quaffing more wine.

In a moment each threw one end of his rope up in the air over the numerous beams and rafters of the servants’ hall.

“Make each his noose; mind they fit their necks nicely.”

“Oh, the cold-blooded rascals!”

“The merciless villains!”

“Mercy!”

“Have pity on us,” gasped the servants, as the Skeletons were making the noose in each rope.

“If they speak again despatch them with your daggers,” said the chief.

“Hanging is better than that,” sighed Roger, “so I’ll keep quiet. I hope my turn will come last, though,” he piously prayed.

“Give the rascals five minutes to say their prayers,” said the chief, with a gruff laugh.

“It won’t do them any good, great chief,” said one of the Skeletons; “they are sure to go to the devil.”

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