“Some rotten apples and potatoes and a lot of mice and vermin, more’n likely,” prophesied Dan Fentress pessimistically.
“Oh, I agree with you there, and I agree also that it is hardly probable that I’d find anything worth while,” Phil replied. “Still, just to be doing something, I’d like to explore that hole in the ground. Remember, fellows, this is pretty nearly on the other side of the world from where we live. Consequently, everything we see and hear around, about, within and among these our approximate antipodes ought to interest us.”
“Nobody could say you nay after such poetic persuasion as that,” avowed one of the imprisoned Marines who thus far had been conspicuous principally because of his silence.
“I left a hard-headed friend unconscious back in Belleau Woods yesterday who had no use for poets in war,” Phil returned quickly. “He regarded them as worse than enemy spies, and I don’t know but that I agree with him. So, you see, you haven’t complimented me very much.”
“There seems to be a little light down there,” said Evans, who had been peering into the cellarway while the others were engaged in what he regarded as profitless palaver. “There must be a window in the cellar wall, and as it isn’t dark yet, probably a wee bit of daylight is filtering through.”
“I’m going down and feel about with my hands,” Phil announced, placing one foot on the top step. “If there’s any light at all down there, I’ll get the benefit of it after my eyes have got accustomed to conditions. So here’s hoping that I’ll find something of more value than rotten apples.”
“I hope you’ll find a keg o’ cider,” said Evans, smacking his lips.
Phil had descended no more than half a dozen steps when he stopped with a low exclamation of interest.
“What’s up?” asked Emmet Harding.
“There’s a shelf here right beside the stairway and several things on it. I’ll hand them up to you, and you see what they are.”