No answer.
“Are you there, Sandy?”
“Heigh ho up there!” came a firm and confident voice. “Throw down that box of matches.”
Toma and Dick breathed a sigh of relief. The matches were dropped down. In an incredibly short space, a small flame partially lit up the dank interior and soon after began flickering and bobbing about like a large firefly.
“What luck?” Dick called out.
Sandy, bent on exploration, was too busy to reply. Match after match flared brightly, burned down to a stub, and was swallowed up in the inky maw of the hole.
“Can you pull me out of this?” Sandy asked finally, when Dick’s patience had been worn to a shred. “I figure I’m about fourteen feet down. Didn’t I see a coil of rope up there?”
Sandy was pulled up through the trap a short time later, blinking as his eyes met the glare of light from the doorway. In spite of his effort to appear unconcerned, it was apparent that he was gripped in some strong emotion.
“What did you find, Sandy?”
The eyes of the young Scotchman gleamed queerly.