“It is a board door,” Ned whispered back, “with wide cracks between the planks. There is an intense red fire in the room beyond.”
Ned placed a foot on the top step of the stairway and slowly and cautiously rested the weight of his body upon it, to make certain that no trap for the protection of the place had been set there. The stone step was solid and bore his weight firmly.
At the bottom of the stairway the boys stopped and looked about. Straight ahead was the cracked door, to the south was a solid wall, to the north, under the stone pavement they had crossed to gain the corner, was a dark room, the door to which stood open. The room was close and hot.
“How are your matches, Jimmie?” whispered Ned.
“Got a pocketful,” was the reply. “Want a light?”
“Not yet. We would better feel our way into the room. Keep close to me and keep your gun handy.”
The room was small, something like a vestibule to a larger one which ran along parallel with the one from which the light came. It was very dark there, and more than once the boys stumbled over obstructions on the floor, which seemed to be of brick or stone. Once Ned heard Jimmie laughing softly as he rolled on the floor.
“I’m thinkin’ what the movin’ picture men are missin’,” the boy said, as he moved forward on his hands and knees.
“This would look rather amusing—on a white canvas on the Bowery,” Ned said.
After reaching a wall, the stones of which felt damp and oozy to the touch, Ned ventured to light a match. The underground room was long and narrow, with rock walls in which there was no opening except the one by way of which the boys had entered.