Part 8 (1/2)

”Well, it looks like it,” said Fred. ”Shall we go any farther?”

”Yes, of course. I want to see what's behind the door.”

Nerving himself to the effort, Scarlett stepped over the intervening s.p.a.ce, and took hold of the top bolt, which, like its fellow, was shot into a socket in the stone wall.

But the bolt was rusted to the staples, and he could not move it with one hand.

”Hold the light, Fred,” he exclaimed; and his companion stood behind him, bearing both candles, as Scarlett tugged and strained and wrenched vainly at the corroded iron.

”Wants a hammer to start it,” said Fred, as the interest in these proceedings drove away the sensations of nervousness. ”Shall we go back and fetch one?”

”I'm--afraid--we shall have to,” panted Scarlett, as he toiled and strained at the stubborn bolt. ”It's of no use to try and--”

There was a sharp creak, the bolt gave way a little, and the rest was only a work of time, for by wriggling it up and down the rust was ground out, and at last it yielded and was drawn back.

”Let me have a try at the other,” cried Fred; and Scarlett squeezed by him and took the candles, to stand, hot and panting, watching intently while his companion attacked the lower bolt.

This was even more compactly fixed than the other; but the thumb-piece was projecting, and Fred began on this with his foot, kicking it upward with his toe, and stamping it down again, till it gradually loosened, and, after a little more working, shot back with ease.

Fred drew away from the door then, and looked at his companion.

”Shall we open it now?” he said, with his old hesitation returning.

Scarlett did not answer for a few moments.

”Think it is a tomb?” he said.

”You said it was not,” replied Fred.

”It would be very horrible if it is; I shouldn't like to look in.”

The door opened from them, and, as they stood there, they could see that it had given a little, so that the edge was nearly half an inch from the stonework, and a faint, damp odour reached their nostrils.

”Don't let's be cowards,” cried Fred; and, raising one foot, he placed it against the door, gave a hard thrust, and started back so suddenly that he nearly overset Scarlett with the lights.

But the door did not fly open. It only yielded a few inches, the hinges giving forth a dismal, grating sound, and for a few moments the boys stood hesitating.

”I don't care,” cried Fred, excitedly. ”I mean to have it open now;”

and he rushed at the door, and thrust and drove, each effort moving it a little more and a little more, the ironwork yielding with groan after groan, as if it were remonstrating for being roused from a long, long sleep, till the door struck against the wall with an echoing bang; and once more the boys hesitated.

But there was nothing to alarm them. The heavy, dank odour came more plainly, and, after a few minutes, Fred took one of the candles and advanced into a stone vault about a dozen feet square, with a very low, arched doorway opposite to them, and another flight of steps descending into darkness, while on one side lay a little heap of rusty iron in the last stages of decay.

”Why, the place is nothing but pa.s.sages and cellars,” cried Fred.

”This must be the end, though,” replied Scarlett, eagerly. ”We have come a good way, and there should be a door at the bottom of these stairs leading into the park.”

”Let's come and see, then,” cried Fred, advancing boldly enough now.

”What fun if we've found another way into the--Here, Scar, look, look!”