“All right! Light up, Shark,” Lon directed. “You and me’ll go ahead, seein’ as how we know the way. Rest o’ you keep clost to us.”
The Shark’s torch was but an inch or two of blackened, resinous pine, and its flame was no greater than that of a toy candle. Still, it enabled Sam to observe Orkney digging away at the bricks of the chimney with furious haste.
“Drop that, Tom, and come along,” he called.
Orkney gave no heed to the summons. Instead, he worked more desperately than ever.
“Give me time! I—I’m getting there!” he declared.
The Shark was moving toward the door. The faint beams of his torch quite failed to reach the spot where Orkney stood. Sam had no notion of what Tom might be about, but he had strongly developed opinions on the unwisdom of tarrying. He strode across the room, grasped Orkney’s shoulder. The other resisted briefly. In a vague way Sam conjectured that he was groping about the chimney. Also he remembered, afterward, that Orkney uttered a queer little exclamation, which seemed to betoken satisfaction, then ceased his resistance.
“Come on!” Sam urged, and Orkney came. Possibly Sam felt rather than saw that Tom was thrusting something into the protection of his closely buttoned coat; but what was of far greater immediate importance was the depth of the invading water, through which they had to wade. It was ankle-deep in the half-wrecked hall; it was over the lower step of the steep and narrow stair leading to the attic, up which Lon and Varley already had passed.
The Shark, standing at the foot of the flight and cherishing his feeble beacon, growled his opinion of those who delayed.
“What you fellows dillydallying for? Think I’m a government lighthouse that’s bound to keep going, anyway? This thing’s nothing but one coal, and it’s getting to me—ouch! I can’t keep on holding it till daylight!”
Sam and Orkney, thus exhorted, quickened their pace. But as they did so, Lon raised a shout, in which was a ring of jubilation: