“In front,” decided Allison. “The explosion came from that direction, and has probably shaken down more of the soil there than behind, but it’s solid clay in the rear, and further out.”
Gail felt the rector’s hand suddenly leave her own. It had been wonderfully comforting there in the dark; so firm and warm and steady. He had not talked much to her, just a few reassuring words, in that low, melodious voice, which thrilled her as did occasionally the touch of Allison’s hand, as did the eyes of Dick Rodley. But she had received more strength from the voice of Allison. He was big, Allison, a power, a force, a spirit of command. She began, for the first time, to comprehend his magnitude.
“What have we to dig with?” The voice of the Reverend Smith Boyd, and there was a note of eagerness in it.
“The benches up in front here,” yelled McCarthy, and there was a ripping sound as he tore the seat from one of them.
“Pardon me.” It was the voice of the rector, up in front.
“The balance of you sit down, and keep rested,” ordered Allison, now also up in front. “McCarthy, Boyd and I go first.”
The long struggle began. The girls grouped together in the back of the car, moving but very little, for there was much broken glass about. Up in front the three men could be heard making an opening into the débris through the forward windows. They talked a great deal, at first, strong, capable voices. They were interfering with each other, then helping, combining their strength to move heavy stones and the like, then they were silent, working independently, or in effective unison.
Tim Corman was the possessor of a phosphorescent-faced watch, with twenty-two jewels on the inside and a ruby on the winding stem, and he constituted himself timekeeper.
“Thirty minutes,” he called out. “It’s our shift.”
“You’d better save yourself, Tim,” suggested Greggory, in a kindly tone.