Gilroy sat flat down at the lip of the Devil’s Punch Bowl and almost sobbed out his grief and fright.
“If I ever get out of this rotten old country,” he declared, “I’ll lock myself up in a steam-heated flat, and remain there as long as I live!”
Leaving the fat clerk bewailing his fate, Jimmie made his way to where Ned was standing, looking anxiously down into the depression.
“Do you see anything of the boys?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” Ned replied. “The fact of the matter is,” he went on, “that we couldn’t distinguish a flock of white elephants down there. It’s darker than a pocket!”
“Then what are we going to do?” demanded Jimmie. “The boy didn’t lie about the locality, but it may be that he lied about the lads being here. Anyway,” he went on, “we’ve got to make our way down this wicked old drop and find out whether they’re here or not.”
The narrow ledges down which Jack and Frank had made their way were now out of sight because of the darkness. In fact, to the boys looking into the black hole from above, there seemed no possible way of entering the place where they believed their chums to be.
While they stood there, wondering how the downward journey was to be made in safety even with the rope, the round eye of an electric searchlight became visible at the mouth of the channel from which the water had been led away. Jimmie pointed to it eagerly.
“They are there!” he cried excitedly. “There they are, sure enough!”
“It must be the boys,” Ned replied, “because that finger of light comes from an electric torchlight, and, so far as I know, we are the only ones having them here.”