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 Sara, who, somehow, felt
responsible, since the weapon had been in his hands.

"N--no, but I'm hit in the fingers," came from the wounded boy. "The
shot went right past my head, too!"

"Make a light, somebody," called out Fred. "Songbird, you've got some
matches."

The poet of the Hall lit a match, and by this faint light the boys first
of all looked at Larry's damaged hand. Fortunately the charge of shot
had merely grazed the thumb and middle finger, and it was found that
Larry was more frightened than hurt. The hand was bound up in a couple
of handkerchiefs.

"When we get back to the boat you'll want to wash the wounds well," said
Dick.

Tom had picked up the electric pocket light, but found he could not make
it work. Again they were in darkness until another match was lit.

"We can't reach that door, with the stairs down," was Dick's comment.
"Let us break out a window."

This was easily accomplished, and one after another the cadets crawled
forth from the cellar. It was a tight squeeze, especially for Fred, who
was rather large at the waist line.

"I guess those fellows who ran away thought we couldn't get through that
window," said Songbird.

"If it had been an inch smaller I should have been stuck," answered
Fred.

They looked all around the old building, but nobody was in sight. The
front door stood wide open, and they rightly surmised that the others
had taken their departure that way.

"The question is, Which way did they go?" came from Dick.

"Do you think they went on foot?" asked Sam. "They might have a
carriage."

"Or a boat," added Larry. "Oh, I hope we can catch them, just to make
'em pay for these hurt fingers of mine!" And he shut his teeth hard, for
the wounds pained him not a little.

"Larry, I trust you don't think it was my fault," observed Sam.

"Not a bit of it, Sam. It was simply an accident, that's all. I am glad
those on the stairs didn't hurt themselves."

"Well, my knee doesn't feel any too good," came from Tom. "I guess I
scratched it quite some."

"Shall we