“Don’t let’s be cowards,” cried Fred; and, raising one foot, he placed it against the door, gave a hard thrust, and started back so suddenly that he nearly overset Scarlett with the lights.
But the door did not fly open. It only yielded a few inches, the hinges giving forth a dismal, grating sound, and for a few moments the boys stood hesitating.
“I don’t care,” cried Fred, excitedly. “I mean to have it open now;” and he rushed at the door, and thrust and drove, each effort moving it a little more and a little more, the ironwork yielding with groan after groan, as if it were remonstrating for being roused from a long, long sleep, till the door struck against the wall with an echoing bang; and once more the boys hesitated.
But there was nothing to alarm them. The heavy, dank odour came more plainly, and, after a few minutes, Fred took one of the candles and advanced into a stone vault about a dozen feet square, with a very low, arched doorway opposite to them, and another flight of steps descending into darkness, while on one side lay a little heap of rusty iron in the last stages of decay.
“Why, the place is nothing but passages and cellars,” cried Fred.
“This must be the end, though,” replied Scarlett, eagerly. “We have come a good way, and there should be a door at the bottom of these stairs leading into the park.”
“Let’s come and see, then,” cried Fred, advancing boldly enough now. “What fun if we’ve found another way into the— Here, Scar, look, look!”
The boy had stopped half a dozen steps down, and he was stooping and holding the candle as far as he could stretch as Scarlett reached his side.
“Water?”
“Yes; water.”