"This house seems to be built on the solid ground. I do not think you will find anything under it," protested the Professor.
"There are houses under every one of these buildings," answered Mr. Marquand. He held a short, keen edged bar in place, while Kris Kringle swung the maul. Gradually they cut a ring about two feet in diameter about the cross. The material of which the floor had been made had been tempered with the years and was almost as hard as flint.
The steady thud of the heavy maul, accompanied by the click, click of the cutting bar, the dim light, the silent, expectant faces, formed a weird picture in this silent desert place.
After a full half hour of this the two men paused, and stood back, drawing sleeves across their foreheads to wipe away the perspiration.
Stacy Brown walked pompously over to the circle.
"Maybe I can fall through it. If I can't, nobody can," he said, jumping up and down on the spot where they had been cutting.
There followed a rambling sound, and with a yell, Stacy Brown suddenly disappeared from sight. In place of the circle in which he had been standing was a black, ragged hole, from which particles of the mortar were still crumbling and rattling to the bottom of the pit.
"Are you there?" cried Kris Kringle, leaping to the spot, thrusting the lantern down through the opening. "Master Stacy!"
"Wow!" responded the boy from the depths.
"Did it hurt you?"