They could see bits of white paper scattered about, forming an irregular line that led to the doorway.
“What silly kind of joke is this, I wonder?” growled Tim.
“Follow the trail and find out,” said Sam, in a sepulchral whisper.
The stairs were old and rickety; the walls streaked with cobwebs. Every footstep echoed in a most uncanny fashion, and sent up eddies of dust, as the boards sprung beneath their heavy tread, while a smell of damp, mouldy earth assailed their nostrils.
“Ugh! Isn’t this dismal?” remarked Tim Lovell.
“Twice over the limit—you can imagine what that means,” grunted Cranny. “Just wait till I see that funny kid.”
At the bottom of the steps, Bob Somers paused. His swinging lantern sent weird streaks of light through the blackness. Beams traveled rapidly over rough, scarred walls, or brought into view piles of rubbish.
A trail of paper led across the hard earthen floor.
“Forward, march! Fall into that awful black spot across the cellar—it’s the underground passageway,” cried Dick.
“Watch yourselves, fellows,” cautioned Tom. “William may be up to some mischief. Great Scott! What was that?”