“Much hurt?” I panted.
“Nay, more scared than hurt, lad,” he said. “I was buried up to my neck, and feeling’s gone out of my legs.”
“Stop now, gentlemen, for heaven’s sake!” cried the manager.
“What! And leave a poor fellow we have promised to come back and help!” cried Uncle Dick with a laugh.
“But it is certain death to go in, gentlemen,” cried the manager passionately. “At the least vibration the roof will fall. I should feel answerable for your lives. I tell you it is death to go.”
“It is moral death to stay away,” cried Uncle Dick. “What would you do, Cob?”
“Go!” I cried proudly, and then I started up panting, almost sobbing, to try and stop them. “No, no,” I cried; “the danger is too great.”
I saw them wave their hands in answer to the cheer that rose, and I saw Pannell wave his with a hoarse “Hooroar!” and then the gloom had swallowed them up again.
“I lay close to the poor lad,” whispered Pannell. “Reg’lar buried alive. Asked me to kill him out of his misery, he did, as I lay there; but I said, ‘howd on, my lad. Them three mesters ’ll fetch us out,’ and so they will.”
“If the roof don’t fall,” said a low voice close by me, and the same voice said, “Lift this poor fellow up and take him to the infirmary.”