“We’ll have to conserve our candles,” was Phil’s first remark after he and his two assistants, Dan Fentress and Donald Winslow, reached the foot of the stairway. “I haven’t any candlestick yet, but we can make one with some stiff clay as soon as we get to digging.”
“What kind of masonwork do we have to cut through?” asked Dan, stepping over to the south wall and proceeding to find an answer to the question for himself.
“It’s brick and cement,” Phil replied, anticipating the questioner’s move to answer himself. “Ordinarily it would be difficult to break even with a crowbar and a sledge hammer; but observe that large frost-crack running down from one corner of the window. Several of the bricks there are almost loose. We can start a hole in the wall by picking out those bricks. Then the work of enlarging the opening ought to be comparatively easy with the aid of this pick.”
As he spoke Phil took up the tool referred to, which he had stood up against the wall, together with the spade, shovel and hoe discovered by him on his first inspection of the cellar. It was by no means a delicate looking pick, and all three of the Marines who examined it agreed that it ought to withstand an extremely heavy leverage in the work before them.
“I figure that the man who lived here worked in that quarry, and that is the explanation of these tools,” Phil continued after his companions had examined the articles in question and satisfied themselves as to their serviceability.
“They are not exactly stonequarry tools, or at least they constitute a decidedly incomplete kit,” Dan remarked critically. “This isn’t much more than an ordinary garden outfit.”
“Well, anyway, they’re here for us to use,” Winslow put in; “so let’s get busy, for this candle is nearly half gone already, and we’re liable to run out of light if we don’t hustle. Here goes for a starter.”
He seized the pick and was about to transform his manifestation of energy into action, when Phil stayed him with this caution:
“Be careful, Winslow; no hard blows. Remember, there are guards within a few rods of this house, and any noises, even though they are muffled by cellar walls and masses of earth, are pretty certain to be investigated.”
“Very wisely said,” returned the young Marine with the pick. “I’m altogether too impulsive for a general. That’s the reason I’m a private and always will be. What shall I do, sergeant, begin a toothpick operation on the wall?”