“No; my glasses!” snapped the Shark. “I’m like a bat if anything happens to them.”
“I understand. But how about the rest of you—the legs and arms, I mean?”
There was a brief pause, as if the Shark might be taking account of stock, so to speak.
“Well, I’m lame in one foot or ankle—can’t be sure which,” he reported. “And I’m sore in one shoulder—must have landed on it. Otherwise, though, I guess I’m all right. I—ugh! Say, that hurt!”
By hearing rather than by sight Varley knew that the Shark was getting upon his feet. He followed the example; also he imitated the exclamation.
“Ouch! Whew! Say, I’ve got my troubles, too.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Varley spoke again:
“It’s queer—I don’t know what’s the matter, but I—I’m sort of dizzy, and—and choking, and—and——”
“It’s getting me, too,” the Shark agreed. “Hold on, though! I’ve got an idea.”
There was the faint click of the catch of a metal match-box. Then a tiny flame showed. By its feeble light Varley made out what were the vague shapes that had seemed like heavier shadows, piles of old barrels and boxes, the usual accumulation of odds and ends in a cellar. Then the sickly flame died down.