The Third Adventure by Gordon Korman Page B

off in his hand, still attached to the lock. Slowly, he opened the doors, trying to minimize the squeaking of the ancient rusted hinges. The gust of air that came up to greet them was musty and coolly damp. They squinted into the gloom of a root cellar, with stone walls and a dirt floor.
    â€œYuck,” said Logan. “There could be mice down there.”
    â€œAnd don’t you dare disturb any of them,” Savannah told him. “They’re animals, just like the rest of us.”
    Ben looked down his own collar. “Hear that, Ferret Face? No hunting.”
    â€œKeep him safe inside your shirt,” Griffin ordered. “The last thing we need is you falling asleep in hostile territory.”
    Melissa called up the flashlight app on her phone and handed it to Griffin. He led the way down the six steps into the cavelike cellar. The cobwebs were so thick that progress was like passing through lace curtains. Savannah gagged.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Pitch whispered. “Aren’t spiders animals just like the rest of us?”
    The space was empty save for a few potato sacks and a broken bushel basket. The toe of Melissa’s sneaker nudged an ancient potato, only to have it crumble to dust.
    â€œWhen’s the last time anybody came down here?” hissed Ben in revulsion.
    â€œThey forgot about this place when they started remembering the Alamo,” Pitch replied in a low voice.
    Griffin held out his arms beside him. The group halted and fell silent. They had reached another staircase, this one leading to a small door. Light was visible around the edges. It was the entrance to the house. Muffled conversation wafted through the door — Swindle and his man.
    The enemy was no more than a few yards away.
    â€œWhat now?” Savannah barely whispered.
    â€œWe chill,” Griffin informed them.
    â€œHere?” quavered Logan, plucking a shred of cobweb from the end of his nose. “The Screen Actors Guild would never approve these conditions!”
    â€œFerret Face doesn’t like the dark,” Ben warned.
    â€œDon’t be stupid,” Savannah said sharply. “Ferrets are most active at murky times like dawn or dusk. They’re crepuscular.”
    â€œYeah, but I’m not!” Ben complained.
    â€œWe have to be able to tell when Swindle and the other guy go to sleep,” Griffin explained. “As soon as it gets quiet on the other side of the door, that’s when we make our move.”
    â€œLet’s switch our phones to airplane mode to save battery life,” Melissa advised. “Once the sun goes down, they’ll be the only light we’ve got.”

    M r. Bing was rewiring a SmartPick TM that had short circuited.
    He tightened the connections, replaced the cover, and pressed the button. With a whirring sound, the titanium fruit-picking pole telescoped across the kitchen, poking his wife in the small of the back.
    Mrs. Bing let out a yelp, juggling and nearly dropping a heavy casserole dish. She turned on her husband. “Why don’t you take that thing to your workshop before you put it through a wall?”
    â€œIt’s so empty around here with Griffin away at camp,” the inventor complained. “Who would have thought one kid could fill up a whole house?”
    â€œWell, he
is
The Man With The Plan,” she reminded him.
    He grinned. “Not at Ebony Lake, he isn’t. That’s the best thing about sending him to the back of beyond — none of his scheming. Not unless he’s organizing a woodchuck insurrection.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” Mrs. Bing agreed a little guiltily. “I guess I never admitted to myself how nerve-racking it is to be Griffin’s mother.”
    Ri-i-i-ing!
    Mr. Bing set down his invention and answered the phone. “Hello . . . speaking . . .”
    The receiver slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a clatter. He stooped to fumble it back to