A half dozen men swarmed over the wreck in the wake of the burly boss and Jeff went along with them. It was rough going over the mass of débris, and the tangle of iron and wood seemed to grow thicker as they approached the point where the fire was raging.
So close to the flames that their faces felt scorched, Tim Crowley stopped and got down on his hands and knees, and with his face to an opening between some timber that seemed to reach down into the heart of the mass of wreckage, he shouted:
“Hello, down there!”
Jeff heard a groan, and then a far-off voice call:
“For God’s sake, get me out of here or I’ll be burned alive.”
“How are you caught?”
“I’m lying flat. Just pinned in by wreckage but my legs are both broken, I think.”
“Legs both broke,” repeated Tim looking up at the rest. “How are we goin’ t’ get him out o’ here? We got to do it in twenty minutes or the fire will drive us away and roast him alive. Come on, some o’ you men, cut this opening larger if you can, but be blamed careful because it’s like a lot of kindling wood an’ if you get too rough the whole thing will slide down on top o’ him and crush him. See how that car door wabbles there an’ that hunk o’ timber is just held in by the end. It will crush him flat if it all goes down.”
Two men started to cut away at the opening and Jeff watched them for a moment. Presently one stopped as his ax clanked on metal and sent out sparks.
“Ain’t no use here, Boss. There’s an iron bumper underneath wedged in so tight that there ain’t but a foot or so of room between it and that truck that’s standing on end. And if we try to move the bumper the truck will fall right down the hole through the wood and smash everything under it.”