"Get off of my fingers!"
"Please let me get out of this hole!"
"Say, how can I get up if you're going to sit on my legs?"
These and a few more utterances came from the boys as they endeavored to clear themselves of the wreckage of the fallen stairs. The small cellar was filled with smoke from the shotgun, and Larry was dancing around flipping his hurt hand in the air. All was pitch dark, for the small windows were covered with dirt and cobwebs to such a depth that no light penetrated through them.
"Beware of that gun!" called Dick, when he could speak. "Only one barrel went off, remember."
"Larry, are you really killed?" questioned Sam, who, somehow, felt responsible, since the weapon had been in his hands.
"N—no, but I'm hit in the fingers," came from
