Memorizing the location of everything, he tiptoed back up the steps and switched off the light; he held still a moment, listening. The voice beyond the door droned on, talking, laughing easily, lazily, sensually. He went back down the steps and pulled on his shoes. He lifted the tool chest and carted it to the hole. Would the noise of the falling box make someone come down and investigate? But he had to have those tools! He lifted the box and shoved hard and the box hit the other side of the wall with a loud clatter, then all was quiet. He waited, listening; nothing happened. Head first, he crawled through and stood in the dark cave. He grinned; the tense, bleak mood that had been upon him while he had been at the keyhole gave way to a sense of relaxation.

He sat down with his back against a clay wall. Groping with his fingers, he opened the tool box and extracted a crowbar, a hammer, a brace, a bit and a screwdriver and fixed them securely about his body, like a soldier arming himself for battle. Yes, he would tunnel his way through walls now and perhaps dig his way into some place where he could find food. It was night and perhaps the sound of his digging would not be heard. He went along the wall, tapping the butt of the screwdriver softly against the brick. He paused, reasoning: There should be other basements farther on. He got his crowbar from his belt and tried to loosen a bit of cement. He had no luck and he brought out the screwdriver and used it as a chisel, striking the hammer lightly against its head. He succeeded in dislodging two bricks. Sweating, he wielded the hammer and as each brick came loose he piled it behind him. After slowly removing two layers, he found himself confronting plastering.

He braced himself, expecting the unknown, chipping away softly with the crowbar. Suddenly, a steady stream of fresh air came to him. Go easy now, he told himself. He caught a faint roar of faraway sound. What was that? Groping in blackness, he made the hole larger, poised at any moment to rise and flee to the sewer. A tiny lump of coal tumbled toward him; he made the hole still larger and discovered that he was digging into a basement coal bin. When the hole was big enough to admit his body, he climbed through, elbowing aside the coal; he scrambled forward and found that he was directly under a pipe. The roaring noise was a trifle louder now, but he could not identify it. Grasping the pipe with both hands, he worked his body out and then swung down, hanging by his fingers, his feet dancing in black space. How deep was the drop? He was afraid to let go. The muscles of his arms were aching and he thought rapidly. Should he let himself drop? The distance may be ten, twenty, or a hundred feet. . . . Hand over hand, he walked outward on the pipe and he heard the sound of many voices. Where was he? The voices did not sound like those he had heard in the church; it was more like a baseball game. He had an idea. Hanging by his left hand, he searched quickly through his pockets with his right hand to find some trifle to drop below to tell him how far it was to the ground. He found a dime—he could tell by the fine ridges around its edge—and let it drop. It tinkled quickly and faintly. Can’t be far, he reasoned. He loosened his fingers and hit abruptly upon a concrete floor, his nostrils full of fresh air, his ears assaulted by the sound of many voices.