Now and then one or another went to the window, peered out, came back, hovered over the fire. It was dying down now, and the stock of available fuel was running short. But already there were warnings that it would not be long before the fire would be put out in another way.
The water in the cellar had risen to the level of the floor of the room. From the gap where the Shark and Varley had broken through, a pool was spreading toward the walls. Through the door, too, a stream was trickling, a tiny stream at first, but steadily growing in volume.
There was no way to check the rising tide, and the boys silently watched the water approach the hearth. At last it reached the glowing coals. There was a faint, hissing sound. A little puff of steam rose, gleamed white for an instant, faded away. A black border of drenched ashes was slowly widening and nearing the heart of the fire.
Sam turned to the Shark. “There’s an upper story; there’ll be stairs, of course. Looked around any, have you?”
The Shark nodded. “We looked. Yes, there are stairs—we didn’t go up. Pretty dark it was.”
“It’ll be darker now, but we’ll have to try ’em,” said Sam quietly.
Again the Shark nodded. “Figured it would come to that. So I saved this.” He pulled from within his jacket a piece of pine board. “This was dry and I guess I’ve kept it so. Lot of pitch in it, too. Ought to make sort of a torch. Wait a minute!”
Bending forward, he thrust an end of the piece of wood into the flame still burning at the back of the hearth. There was a sputter, a spark or two flew. Then a jet of smoke shot out, and a yellow tongue curled about the end of the pine board.
Protecting the precious flame with his cupped hand, the Shark followed Sam through the doorway, and into the hall of the old house, wading through water ankle deep as they went. After them filed the others, Lon bringing up the rear.