“What's that?” muttered the red-shirted foreman—“that ain't no blast—My God!—they're blowed up!”
He sprang on a car and waved his arms with all his might: “Drop them shovels! Git to the tunnel, every man of ye: here,—this way!” and he plunged on, the men scrambling after him.
The Beast was a magnet now, drawing everything to its mouth. Gangs of men swarmed up the side of the hill; stumbling, falling; picking themselves up only to stumble and fall again. Down the railroad tracks swept a repair squad who had been straightening a switch, their foreman in the lead. From out of the cabins bareheaded women and children ran screaming.
The end of the “fill” nearest the tunnel was now black with people; those nearest to the opening were shielding their faces from the deadly gas. The roar of voices was incessant; some shouted from sheer excitement; others broke into curses, shaking their fists at The Beast; blaming the management. All about stood shivering women with white faces, some chewing the corners of their shawls in their agony.
Then a cry clearer than the others soared above the heads of the terror-stricken mob as a rescue gang made ready to enter the tunnel:
“Water! Water! Get a bucket, some of ye! Ye can't live in that smoke yet! Tie your mouth up if you're going in! Wet it, damn ye!—do ye want to be choked stiff!”
A shrill voice now cut the air.
“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.