"It's the boss and the clerk and Mr. Bolton that's catched!"
"Yes--and a gang from the big shanty; I seen 'em goin' in,"
shouted back the red-shirted foreman.
The volunteers--big, brawny men, who, warned by the foreman, had
been binding wet cloths over their mouths, now sprang forward,
peering into the gloom. Then the sound of footsteps was heard--
nearer--nearer. Groping through the blue haze stumbled a man, his
shirt sleeve shielding his mouth. On he came, staggering from side
to side, reached the edge of the mouth and pitched head-foremost
as the fresh air filled his lungs. A dozen hands dragged him
clear. It was Bolton.
His clothes were torn and scorched; his face blackened; his left
hand dripping blood. Two of the shanty gang were next hauled out
and laid on the back of an overturned dirt car. They had been near
the mouth when the explosion came, and throwing themselves flat
had crawled toward the opening.
Bolton was still unconscious, but the two shanty men gasped out
the terrible facts: "The boss and the clerk, was jes' starting out
when everything let go"; they choked; "ther' ain't nothing left of
the other men.
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