“Is anyone here?”
There was a low wailing cry for help far back beyond the ripped-up boiler, and in what, with tottering wall and hanging roof, was a place too dangerous to approach.
“Come, lads, we must have him out,” cried Uncle Dick; but a gentleman, who was evidently one of the managers, exclaimed:
“No, it is too dangerous.”
“Volunteers!” cried Uncle Dick.
Uncle Jack, Uncle Bob, Pannell, Stevens, and four more men went to his side, and in the midst of a deathly silence we saw them go softly in and disappear in the gloom of the great wrecked boiler-house.
Then there was utter silence, out of which Uncle Dick’s voice came loud and clear, but ominously followed by the rattling down of some fragments of brick.
“Where are you? Try and speak.”
A low piteous moan was the reply.
“All right, my lads, down here!” we heard Uncle Jack cry. “No picks—hands, hands.”