Then I groped among the sacks and boxes.

I couldn't open the latter, and the sacks seemed to be full of things like dog-biscuits that smelt of cinnamon.

But, as I circumnavigated the room, I found a handle in the wall which seemed worth investigating.
It was the door of a wall cupboard--what they call a 'press' in Scotland--and it was locked.

I shook it, and it seemed rather flimsy.
For want of something better to do I put out my strength on that door, getting some purchase on the handle by looping my braces round it.
Presently the thing gave with a crash which I thought would bring in my warders to inquire.

I waited for a bit, and then started to explore the cupboard shelves.
There was a multitude of queer things there.