“She went in, too,” cried the man, scrambling over the edge. “Are you hurt, lady?” he called.
“Betty!” shouted Bob. “Betty, are you hurt?” He took a flying leap to the edge of the hole, and, having miscalculated the distance, slid over after the barrels.
Over and over he rolled, bringing up breathless against something soft.
“I knew you’d come to get me,” giggled Betty, “but you needn’t have hurried. Are there any more barrels coming?”
Bob was immensely relieved to find that she was unhurt. The barrels had luckily been empty and had rolled over and into her harmlessly.
“Well, looks like you’re all right,” grinned the Chassada citizen who had followed Bob more leisurely. “Let me help you up this grade. There now, you’re fine and dandy, barring a little dirt that will wash off. George Zinker excavated last winter for a house, and then didn’t build. I always told him the walk was shifty. You’re strangers in town, aren’t you?”
Bob explained that they were only waiting over between trains.
“So you’re going to Flame City!” exclaimed their new friend with interest when Bob mentioned their destination. “I hear they’ve struck it rich in the fields. Buying up everything in sight, they say. We had a well come in last week. Hope you have a place to stay, though; Flame City isn’t much more than a store and a post-office.”
Betty looked up from rubbing her skirt with her clean handkerchief in an endeavor to remove some of the gravel stains.
“Isn’t Flame City larger than Chassada?” she demanded.