“I shan’t go any farther, Scar,” cried Fred. “I don’t want to have to swim.”
“Yes, it is getting deep,” said Scarlett, thoughtfully.
“Couldn’t get a boat down here, could we!”
“No; but we might get one of the big tubs,” replied Scarlett. “It would hold us both. Shall we go back now?”
“Yes; we’re so horribly wet; but hold the lanthorn up higher, and— Oh, I say!”
Scarlett had obeyed, and raised it so high that the lanthorn struck slightly against the rough roof, and, as the candle happened to be already burning away in the socket, this was sufficient to extinguish it, and for the moment they were in total darkness, or so it seemed to them in the sudden change.
Then Fred cried exultantly, “Look! look!” and pointed to a bright, rough-looking star of light.
“Sunshine,” cried Scarlett. “Then that is the entrance. Shall we go on?”
Fred had already squeezed by him, and was wading on toward the light, which proved to be not more than fifty feet away.
“Come along!” he cried; “it isn’t very much deeper, only up to my middle now. Here, I’m touching it. This is the end, and—it’s—it’s—no, I can’t quite make out where it is,” he continued, as he darkened the hole by placing his face to it; “but I can see the lake, and I could see where, only there’s a whole lot of ivy hanging down.”