These and a few more utterances came from the boys as they endeavored to clear themselves of the wreckage of the fallen stairs. The small cellar was filled with smoke from the shotgun, and Larry was dancing around flipping his hurt hand in the air. All was pitch dark, for the small windows were covered with dirt and cobwebs to such a depth that no light penetrated through them.
"Beware of that gun!" called Dick, when he could speak. "Only one barrel went off, remember."
"Larry, are you really killed?" questioned Sara, who, somehow, felt responsible, since the weapon had been in his hands.
"N—no, but I'm hit in the fingers," came from the wounded boy. "The shot went right past my head, too!"
"Make a light, somebody," called out Fred. "Songbird, you've got some matches."
The poet of the Hall lit a match, and by this faint light the boys first of all looked at Larry's damaged hand. Fortunately the charge of shot had merely grazed the thumb and middle finger, and it was found that Larry was more frightened than hurt. The hand was bound up in a couple of handkerchiefs.
"When we get back to the boat you'll want to wash the wounds well," said Dick.
Tom had picked up the electric pocket light, but found he could not make it work. Again they were in darkness until another match was lit.
"We can't reach that door, with the stairs down," was Dick's comment. "Let us break out a window."
This was easily accomplished, and one after another the cadets crawled forth from the cellar. It was a tight squeeze, especially for Fred, who was rather large at the waist line.