He was hardly
able to keep his feet in the swirling, bubbling water that swept
past, almost up to his neck.
The minutes passed as the policeman and I watched our prisoner in
the cellar, by the tube. I looked anxiously at my watch.
"Craig!" I shouted at last, unable to control my fears for him.
No answer. To go down after him seemed out of the question.
By this time, Craig had come to a small open chamber into which
the sewer widened. On the wall he found another series of iron
rungs up which he climbed. The gas was terrible.
As he neared the top of the ladder, he came to a shelf-like
aperture in the sewer chamber, and gazed about. It was horribly
dark. He reached out and felt a piece of cloth. Anxiously he
pulled on it. Then he reached further into the darkness.
There was Elaine, unconscious, apparently dead.
He shook her, endeavoring to wake her up. But it was no use.
In desperation Craig carried her down the ladder.
With our prisoner, we could only look helplessly around. Again and
again I looked at my watch as the minutes lengthened. Suppose the
oxygen gave out?
"By George, I'm going down after him," I cried in desperation.
"Don't do it," advised the policeman. "You'll never get out."
One whiff of the horrible gas told me that he was right. I should
not have been able to go fifty feet in it.
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