up our heathen friends," Mark added. "Hop on my shoulders, will you, and see what the ceiling's like."
Alan scrambled up and stood precariously on his brother's shoulders, Mark's arms twined around the other's legs. He stretched his hands out.
"It's wood—beams and stuff—rottenish," he stated.
"Rotten enough to give anywhere?" Mark asked.
"I don't know. Go over toward the corner; it's apt to be punk where water's run in, down the joinings. Easy now, I'm no acrobat!"
"Easy yourself," Mark whispered; "you're no bit of thistledown."
"Wait a minute!" Alan muttered. "Stand still. There's a hole I can get my hand into."
"For heaven's sake don't go hauling anything that'll make a big smash," Mark cautioned.
"I'm not. It's rotten as can be. I'm easing off little chunks of it with my hands. Here, you take 'em; they'll make a noise if I drop
