We passed the boss and the clerk; they was blowed
agin a car; the boss was stove up, the clerk was crawlin' toward
him. They'll never git out alive: none on 'em. We fellers was jes'
givin' up when we see the daylight and heared you a-yellin'."
A hush now fell on the mass of people, broken by the piercing
shriek of a woman,--the wife of a shanty man. She would have
rushed in had not some one held her.
Bolton sat up, gazing stupidly about him. Part of the story of the
escaped men had reached his ears. He struggled to his feet and
staggerd toward the opening of the tunnel. The red-shirted foreman
caught him under the armpits and whirled him back.
"That ain't no place for you!" he cried--"I'll go!"
A muffled cry was heard. It came from a bystander lying flat on
his belly inside the mouth: he had crawled in as far as he could.
"Here they come!"
New footfalls grew distinct, whether one or more the listeners
could not make out. Under the shouts of the red-shirted foreman to
give them air, the throng fell back.
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