The Shark nodded solemnly. “Much obliged. Good work. You’re all right. I won’t forget it.” His voice was faint, but there was more than a hint of his usual crisp speech.
With some difficulty Paul sat up. So did the Shark. There was a long pause, each regarding the other steadily. Suddenly Varley spoke:
“We’re lucky—to get out of that.” He jerked his head in the direction of the yawning hole in the floor.
“Sure!” responded the Shark. “You see how it was? Cellar’s been shut up tight, so the air goes bad. Read about such things. Knew something was happening to us, but it needed the way the match failed to burn to give me a hint of what it was.”
“I understand. But—but what next?”
Cautiously and with a manner of not being over-sure of himself, the Shark stood up. He peered out of the window, and shook his head.
“Worse than it was,” he made report. “Raining harder than ever. And say! I’m pretty wet.”
Varley, too, got upon his feet. A glance through the dingy panes sufficed. The Shark had not exaggerated the weather conditions outside.
“Well, what ought we to do?” Paul inquired. “Pile out into it?”
The Shark shook his head decidedly. “No; not just yet. I’m too nearly all in. Got to have a chance to pull myself together and get my second wind.”