The house was bare. Every article of furniture had been removed. Not even a lamp with which to dispel the gloom of the place was to be found.
“There isn’t a bit of ventilation in this house,” declared one of the prisoners, whose name, it soon developed, was Arthur Evans.
“And we don’t dare try to open a window for fear one of the guards may try his marksmanship at us,” said another who had been addressed in Phil’s hearing as Jerry Carey.
“It’s almost as big a menace as being gassed,” muttered another Marine, who answered to the name of Burns.
“I don’t suppose we fifteen men would exactly die in these tightly closed rooms in one night,” said Phil meditatively; “but I’m afraid we’d almost have to be carried out by morning. We’d better get our wits together and contrive some kind of vent that will make possible a current of air up through the chimney.”
“I’m in favor of smashing one of the windows with a shoe,” Burns announced. “We can all drop down flat on the floor and escape a volley from the guards if they fire in here.”
“Let’s try something else,” Phil proposed. “Here’s a trapdoor. Maybe it opens into a basement or cellar. Let’s see if we can’t get some air through that.”
There was no ring or handle of any kind with which to lift the door. So Phil hunted around until he found a small stick with which he was able to get a slight purchase and lifted the door until he was able to get hold of it with his fingers. A moment later the entire group of prisoners were gazing down into a dark hole in which the only visible object was the upper part of a rude flight of steps.
“There’s no air in that place,” declared one of the Marines, sniffing in disgust at the scent of mold and must of the atmosphere in the cellar.
“I wish I had a light and I’d go down and explore it,” said Phil. “Who knows what we might find in it?”