She was crouched upon the top step of the stairs, peering over the candle flame, confronted now with the enemy of so many ambitions: Water!
“Please, Marty!” she begged. “Don’t wade in. It might have a suck hole!”
But Marty was fascinated. He loved water, even in the cellar of a model bungalow. His shoes and stockings dangled from the step—not the last step of the stairs, and his accommodating trousers, without knee button or other security, had been rolled high as a fisherman’s.
“’Tain’t a bit cold,” he gurgled. “I wanna see if it’s pourin’ in anywheres.”
Gloria and Marty started to inspect the cellar.
Gloria shivered. It was dark, drafty and fearful there. She too was anxious to know why a cellar full of water could work such sinister disaster, but she didn’t like to stay there, with that reckless little boy, when night was threatening.
“I see it!” he called. “Here’s the spring—or somethin’!” Again the stick was thrust down.
He tried to withdraw it, then—
A scream from Gloria!