“Whew! It’s getting close in here already. I shall need fresh air before long.”
The ceiling was two feet above his head, and brief study convinced Nick that nothing could be done in that direction.
Next he sounded the walls and doors with the butt of his revolver. Each appeared to be solid, infernally solid, and Nick then fell to his knees upon the bare floor.
“It’s the only way,” he muttered decisively. “I must get through this floor in some way. It must be done quickly, too, or I may become weak for want of better air.”
Upon his hands and knees Nick carefully examined the floor.
It consisted of spruce boards, six inches wide, in most of which there was no break. Presently, however, he discovered a crack where the ends of two of the boards met.
“Aha! this is better!” he muttered.
With his knife he dug out the wood around the nails securing the longer of the two boards, and succeeded in slightly prying up the end of it.
There was another board beneath it.
With countenance grown more grim and determined, Nick rose to his feet and drew his revolver.