“All right, suppose we get back,” suggested the captain. “The bottom of my stomach is sunk lower than this fishing smack!”
They went up the stairs, Ned and Don stopping to examine one of the musty guns that was on the wall. The others stepped off of the deck and onto the sand, and seeing that the two boys were not with them, the professor called out: “Come on, boys, back to camp.”
“We’re coming!” Don replied, as he started up the stairs, with Ned a step or two back of him. Don had just thrust his head out of the hatchway when there came a warning shout from Terry.
“Hurry up!” he yelled. “The sand is sliding!”
The wet sand which they had piled up during the day suddenly slid down the hill with gathering force. Don sprang forward quickly, but was too late. The sand hit the deck of the galleon, there was a dull report and a sucking sensation, and then the whole room which they had excavated caved in. The deck, rotting and weakened, gave way under the descending weight of the wet and dry sand, and went through with a roar. Don and Ned disappeared from sight, buried alive in the wreck of the galleon!
The party on the shore stared dumbly for one minute, appalled by the horror of the tragedy, and then Captain Blow leaped forward.
“Come on and dig!” he cried. “If we don’t dig like fury they’ll smother to death!”
As the others followed him the intrepid captain leaped down on the heap of sand where the boys had last been seen and began to dig frantically. The sand was loose and he sank down in it, but he dug without heeding his own peril, and the others helped him. Don’s hand speedily worked loose from the sand and they caught hold of it.
“Work right around his arm,” cried the captain. “Be careful not to hit his head with your shovels.”
The scene was one of wildest confusion. By digging with furious energy they got Don’s head free and only just in time. He was purple and fairly clawed for air. They attempted to drag him loose, but failed. He pushed the sand from his mouth and spoke urgently.