But it's just the equalising of pressure as the vault door unseals.

Sunning himself on the board steps, I saw for the first time Mr. Farquhar Fenelon Cooke. He was dressed out in broad gaiters and bright tweeds, like an English tourist, and his face might have belonged to Dagon, idol of the Philistines.

Once he almost fell asleep, and then the little record player started up in his mother and father's bedroom. Mom was playing her scratchy Elvis 45s again.

The waggoner scratched his head, and quoth he, “ Eh, missus, what'll the measter say'l I be despert feared she've ' fainted, poor zowl! ”