UNDERGROUND
The change of camp had relieved the boys of one irksome tie. There was
no longer any need for a constant guard. The barbed wire, and
Warrender's patrolling of the camp, were merely ruses for the deception
of the enemy. Next morning, therefore, for the first time since their
arrival, all three went off together in the motor-boat, to make a trip
down the river and along the coast westward. They threw a keen glance
at Rush's hut as they turned the point. Its door was closed; nobody was
about; and the only human being they saw in the course of their
expedition was one solitary figure moving slowly along the top of the
cliff--possibly a coastguard.
They lunched on the boat, and did not return until afternoon. Leaving
the others to prepare tea, Warrender went on to the village, bought a
small luminous compass, and an electric torch from Blevins's
miscellaneous stock, and a few buns at the baker's. When he regained
the camp, his companions reported that there was no sign of its still
being kept under observation--by this time the enemy was probably
persuaded that their only wish was to be left alone. While they were
having tea, Rush rowed slowly past, going down stream. He did not turn
his head towards them, but Pratt declared that he had given them a sly
glance out of the tail of his eye.
To keep up appearances, they decided that one of them should remain on
guard that night as before. The lot fell upon Pratt. At nightfall the
others, equipped with the compass and torch and two short stout sticks,
put off in the pram, and, landing on the island, without much difficulty
struck their old clearing--now clearer than ever, and redolent of smoke
and fire---and wound their way to the ruined cottage. The moaning
sounded more eerie than they had yet heard it, rising and falling with
the fitful gusts.
When they reached the old garden, they bent low, approached the ruins
under cover of the tallest plants, and waited a while at the foot of the
wall before venturing into the entrance. Warrender kept guard on the
lower floor while Armstrong, who knew the place better, explored the
upper storey thoroughly with the aid of the torch, which he kept
carefully shaded from outside view. Above his head, somewhere on the
roof, the dismal note sounded continually. He went into the eastern
room from which he had seen the signal light. No light was visible.
Returning below stairs, he examined the whole of the premises with equal
care. Everything was as it had been. There was nothing to indicate that
any one had entered the place since his last visit.
"We shall have to make a night of it," said Warrender. "It was morning
when Pratt saw some one in the lower room. It doesn't follow that he
comes every morning, or, indeed, that he has ever come again; but we had
better wait on the chance."
"Let us go upstairs, then, and sit against the wall where we can see the
window. I don't believe that signal can be seen from the sea, and the
fact that it can be seen from here seems to show that the signaller
expects some one to be at the cottage. It won't be easy to keep awake,
but we mustn't fall asleep together."
With backs against the wall, arms folded, and legs stretched on the
floor, they sat watching. No light shone; there was no sound but those
produced by the wind in the leaves and that monotonous, provoking,
doleful wail from the roof. Hour after hour passed. Now and then each
got up in turn to stretch his limbs. One or the other dozed at times.
The still hours crept on; nothing happened; it seemed that their
patience was to meet with no reward.
It was not until the faint grey tint of early dawn was stealing up the
eastern horizon that a sound below caught Armstrong's attentive ear. He
nudged Warrender dozing by his side. Grasping their sticks, they rose
and tiptoed to the doorway. Some one was clumsily mounting the stairs.
They peeped out. At the farther end of the landing a large, dark shape
rose from the staircase, turned at the head, and went into the western
room. Slipping off his boots, Warrender crept stealthily along the wall
and looked in after the intruder. The room was dark, but, against the
twilight framed by the window-opening, he saw the legs and feet of a man
disappearing upwards outside. In a few moments there came scraping
sounds from the roof; the moaning suddenly ceased, and after a little
the man's feet reappeared; he was lowering himself into the room.
Warrender stole back; at Armstrong's side he watched the man return
across the landing to the staircase, and heard his heavy footsteps as he
descended.
"Watch from this window; I'll go to the other," whispered Warrender.
From these posts of observation, commanding almost the whole of the
surroundings of the cottage, they looked for the emergence of the
visitor. He did not appear; nor, after his footsteps had ceased, did
they hear a sound. Had he gone into one of the lower rooms? Leaving
Armstrong to keep watch at his window, Warrender, in his stockinged
feet, stole down the stairs, and peeped into each of the rooms and the
kitchen and scullery in turn. The dawn was growing; but the man was not
to be seen. All was silent. A slight whistle summoned Armstrong;
together the boys quietly and rapidly ranged the lower floor, taking
advantage of the increasing light to search for some secret
hiding-place, some recess or cranny in the wall. There was nothing. The
walls were too thin to enclose space enough for a man to hide. Where
had he gone? He had not left the place by doorway or window; he must be
somewhere within.
"The cellar!" said Armstrong, remembering the scrap of paper he had
found there.
Warrender ran upstairs, slipped on his boots, and returned. The door at
the head of the cellar staircase was closed. They opened it gently,
listening. There was no sound from below. Cautiously, step by step,
they descended. At the foot of the staircase they held their breath for
a moment. Then Warrender flashed the torch. The cellar was empty. They
examined every inch of the walls up to the height of a man. The
brick-work was whole; not a brick was displaced, not a seam of mortar
missing. They tramped over the black, dusty floor; everywhere it was
solid; there was no hollow ringing beneath their feet. Scraping away a
little of the coal dust, they found that the floor also was of brick
except at the foot of the steps, where there was a large flagstone.
Something caught Armstrong's eye. He stooped.
"Look here," he said. The joint between the flagstone and the brickwork
of the floor had a sharp, well-defined edge. The crevice was free from
coal dust.
"A little suspicious, eh?" said Warrender. "Stamp on the stone."
"Hold hard! What if that fellow is underneath it?"
"We've got to the point where we must take risks. But it's not credible
that any one actually lives down below, even if there is a below. Try a
kick or two."
But there was no ringing sound when Armstrong stamped; the stone was
either laid firmly on the earth, or it was so thick that, if there was a
hollow beneath it, the fact would not be detected. Nor, when Armstrong
trod heavily all over its surface, was there the slightest sign of
movement.
"Feel along the edge," Warrender suggested.
Armstrong went down on hands and knees and drew his finger along the
base of the lowest step.
"A slight crack here, at the left end," he said.
"Big enough to get your finger in?"
"No; it can't be more than an eighth of an inch wide. It's upright,
between the step and the wall. Looks as if the stone has shifted."
"Well, if you can't get your finger in, try your knife blade."
"Wait a bit, there's another crack, smaller still, right along the edge
of the step, between it and the upright slab."
They had both lowered their voices to a whisper. Armstrong gave the
upright a push, near the middle. It was firm, unyielding. But pushing
leftwards, he felt a slight movement, and at the extreme end, a very
gentle pressure caused the slab to swing inwards easily, the right half
of it at the same time moving outwards.
"By gum, it works on a pivot!" exclaimed Armstrong, under his breath.
"We're on the track! But this opening's only about six inches wide;
nobody but a baby could crawl through it."
For a few moments they held their breath, listening for sounds. All was
silent. Then Warrender dropped on all fours and shone his torch into
the dark gap. The space was empty. Armstrong thrust in his hand, and
felt over the earthen floor, then along the edge of the flagstone, and
finally beneath it.
"There's a hollow space here," he said. "And, I say, here's a metal
hand-grip just below the flagstone."
He tugged it; there was no movement. He pushed it on each side in turn,
still without result. Baffled, he sat on his haunches.
"What's the hand-grip for?" he said. "Obviously for moving something.
Then why doesn't anything move?"
"Perhaps it can only be operated from below," Warrender suggested. "If
this is an entrance to the cellar, it may be left open when any one
comes this way."
"That's not likely. An entrance that can only be opened from one side
isn't worth much. No, something sticks, and if that fellow went through
a few minutes ago, it can't be for want of use. _Why_ does it stick,
then?"
Armstrong pondered for a few moments, then said suddenly, "Possibly it's
my pressure on the stone. Let's try."
He moved back, so that the weight of his body bore upon the rear instead
of the fore end of the stone. Then, however, he found that he could not
reach the hand-grip.
"Why not try the other side?" said Warrender. "There may be another grip
there."
The other side of the staircase was open to the cellar, and Armstrong
was able to thrust his arm into the aperture below the step without
treading on the flagstone.
"Got it!" he said, a moment later. "There's a grip here. It moves in a
quarter-circle. Something--a disk of stone, I fancy--is revolving."
He pressed on the flagstone; still there was no distinct movement
downwards, though it seemed to have yielded a trifle.
"Clearly it won't shift until the other grip is turned," he said. "But
how to get at that?"
After a little consideration he had another idea. Going a few steps up
the staircase, he turned, and crawled down head first until he was able
to get his hand under the edge of the stone.
"All right, old man," he said, cheerfully. "I've moved the grip now.
Keep clear of the other end of the stone."
Lying full stretch on the staircase, he pressed on the stone beneath
him. It sank gently; the other end moved upwards, and in a few seconds
the stone stood upright in the middle of a dark gap. Warrender bent
down, holding the electric torch just above the opening.
"The bottom's only about five feet deep," he said. "It's the end of
some sort of passage. Come down, old man, and we'll explore it
together."
[Illustration: "'THE BOTTOM'S ONLY ABOUT FIVE FEET DEEP.'"]
They dropped lightly into the cavity. By the light of the torch they
saw that on each side a flat circular wheel of stone, lacking one
quadrant, moved on an iron axle in such a way that a half-turn of the
hand-grip removed the support of the flagstone and allowed the corner to
drop down. The flagstone was nicely balanced on a revolving iron rod let
into a socket at each end. This contrivance formed the entrance to a
narrow tunnel about four feet wide, and something over five feet high in
the centre. Neither of the boys could stand upright in it. The floor
was of hard-beaten earth; the walls and the arched roof were of ancient
brick, covered with an incrustation of slimy moss.
"An old smugglers' tunnel, I'll be bound," said Armstrong. "It will be
very odd if we have struck a lair of modern smugglers. Just look at
your compass and see what direction it takes."
The needle swung almost perpendicular to the course of the tunnel.
"Eastward," said Warrender. "That's strange. I thought it probably ran
south, to somewhere near that place at the end of the island where we
saw the marks of a boat the other day."
"It seems to shelve downward slightly. Looks as if it runs under the
channel."
"Towards Pratt's uncle's grounds. Let's explore."
"Better switch off your light, then. We can find our way in the dark by
touching the sides."
They went forward in single file, stepping gingerly, and bending their
heads to avoid the roof. The air smelt musty and dank, and was
unpleasant and oppressive. For a time the floor sloped gently
downwards, but presently they were aware that it had taken an upward
trend.
"We've crossed the channel," said Armstrong in a whisper that the
vaulted walls made unnaturally loud.
A little later they noticed ahead of them a space dimly illuminated.
Moving forward cautiously, they found themselves at the bottom of a
circular shaft. Far above them they saw daylight in parallel streaks.
"A dry well," murmured Warrender, "roughly boarded over." Consulting
his compass, he added, "Still eastwards. Rummy if the tunnel goes to
the Red House."
Pursuing their way in utter darkness as before, the floor still rising
very slightly, they became aware by and by that the tunnel had enlarged.
From the centre they could not touch the wall on either side, and the
greater lightness of the air gave them a sense of spaciousness.
Suddenly Armstrong, who was leading, stumbled over something on the
floor and fell forward. His hands, instinctively thrust out, were
arrested by a bundle encased in tarpaulin. He straightened himself. For
a moment or two they waited, straining their ears. There was no sound.
"A light," murmured Armstrong.
The light revealed that they had arrived at a small chamber about twelve
feet square and seven or eight feet high. The farther end was broken by
the tunnel. In each side wall, a foot below the roof, were let a couple
of iron rings, deeply rusted.
"For holding torches," said Armstrong.
The chamber was empty except for three bundles on the floor. It was
over one of these that Armstrong had stumbled. Two of them were
completely covered with tarpaulin, and roped; the third was partly open
at the top.
"They're like the bundles I saw Rush and the other fellow carry up from
the boat," said Armstrong.
"Queer smuggling," said Warrender, bending over the open bale. "It
seems to hold nothing but paper."
He took up the topmost sheet. It was a thin, semi-transparent paper,
and crackled to the touch.
"This isn't newspaper," he said.
"Cigarette paper, perhaps," said Armstrong. "But where's the 'baccy?"
"Can't smell any. I wonder how much farther the tunnel goes?"
Entering it at the extreme end of the chamber, Warrender came within a
yard to a contrivance similar to that which gave access from the cellar.
"Here's the end," he said. "Look, the grips are turned. Shall we risk
lifting the stone?"
"Dangerous," said Armstrong. "Goodness knows where we'd find
ourselves."
Scarcely had he spoken when from above came the dull sound of footsteps.
Switching off the light, Warrender backed into the chamber and hastily
crossed it with Armstrong, both moving on tiptoe. They re-entered the
tunnel, crept along for a few yards, then halted, listening
breathlessly. They heard the footsteps of one man in the chamber they
had just left. The footsteps ceased, and were followed by a rustling.
It seemed clear that their presence was unsuspected, and they ventured
to tiptoe back until, near the opening of the tunnel, they were able to
peep into the chamber. By the dim light that came through the aperture
left open by the revolved flagstone on the farther side, they saw a
short, stout man drawing sheets of paper from the opened package. He
counted them as he took them up, and presently turned, carried them
through the opening, and let down the flagstone behind him. There was
not light enough by which to identify him.
[Illustration: "THEY SAW A SHORT, STOUT MAN DRAWING SHEETS OF PAPER FROM
THE OPENED PACKAGE."]
The boys re-entered the chamber, and listened until the sound of his
retreating footsteps above had died away. Then Warrender switched on
the light, took a sheet of paper from the top of the bale, folded it,
and put it into his breast pocket.
"Now for home," he whispered. "We've something for Percy to start a new
theory on."