“No,” said Scarlett, doggedly. “It’s our place, and I want to be able to tell father all about it.”
“No, no; don’t do that,” cried Fred, in dismay.
“I don’t mean yet. I mean when we’ve done with it.”
“I’ve done with it now,” muttered Fred. “I don’t see any fun in going sop, sop, squeeze, squatter, through all this cold, dark water. Eh! what’s that—the end of it?”
“I think so,” said Scarlett, holding the lanthorn up as high as he could. “Here are some steps and a door.”
“Of course; then that must be the door that opens on the lake.”
“No, it can’t be, for the steps are dry, and—I say, Fred!”
“What is it?”
“Look here,” cried Scarlett. “This is strange. Here’s a chamber or cellar.”
“Just like the other we found.”