“Murder!” gasped Harry. “We are in it—bad!”
Frank felt that Rattleton was right; without doubt they were in a very bad scrape. But it was Merry’s policy to keep up his courage and put on a front, so he joked and laughed as if it were a matter to be made light of.
“I don’t know how you do it, old man,” said Harry, gloomily; “but I can’t laugh while we are in this sort of a hole.”
“We’ve both been in bad scrapes before. Keep a stiff upper lip. We’ll pull out all right. First, we must see if we can scale this place where we fell.”
Another match was lighted, and they made an examination. It was not long before they were convinced that it was utterly useless to think of trying to get out that way.
“Can’t be done!” groaned Harry.
“Not that way,” admitted Frank. “But we’ll find a way.”
“We came here to find the buried heiress, and now we are buried ourselves. That’s what I call hard lines.”
With the aid of their matches, they made their way along slowly, both fearing they might take another fall, and that it might be fatal.
“Perhaps it would be the best thing that could happen to us,” said Rattleton, dolefully. “It would be a great deal better than starving down here underground.”