He swam easily about, hardly thinking. His mind felt dulled and bruised. He swam mechanically. He knew that the end was not far off now.
And now, in the hope that he might have overlooked some projection on the walls to which he might cling, he began feeling along them. But the cement was smooth as glass, slimy to the touch, and cold as ice.
Herc began to feel chilled. His limbs felt heavy. He no longer swam strongly about seeking, like a cornered rat, for some means of escape, but allowed himself to float or else tread water.
Bit by bit his efforts began to grow weaker. He felt that he could not keep up much longer, and somehow he did not much care.
It was just at that moment that something struck him a violent blow under the chin.
It was an old plank. Thrown into the cellar at some forgotten time, it was floating on the top of the water and had rocked against the lad at a critical moment.
Herc reached out and grasped it. Somehow the touch of it was almost as comforting to him as human companionship. Once more the tide of life, the desire to live, swelled through his veins. He was again a fighter.
Supporting himself on the plank, he began to think. By stretching out his hand he could touch the ceiling of the cellar.
Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. If he could locate the trap-door, and it was not locked, he had a fighting chance for his life.