It was going down, down, down — slowly down, with ropes beneath it. The thought stunned Bruce momentarily. His mind seemed apart from his body. He was thinking of other things while he shouted and beat against the top of the box.
He writhed and turned on his side. Both hands were free; his ankles were almost loosened. He tried to get on his knees to brace his back against the cover.
Thud! It was dirt upon the coffin. The noise was repeated — again and again. Bruce was no longer shouting for aid, no longer fighting wildly. Somehow the terrible situation had calmed his feverish mind.
He was making one concentrated, superhuman effort to gain his freedom.
Bracing on hands and knees, he pushed against the top of the pine box, almost confident that he could force it. But now the weight was terrific. The thudding had ceased; there was no noise from above. He realized that Chefano and Frenchy, aided by the imitative Jupe, had been piling on the soft earth with terrific speed.
He sank to the floor of the box, exhausted. He could no longer struggle. It seemed that he was being crushed, pressed beneath tremendous weight. Even the air seemed thick — almost solid. Such blackness!
He could feel it!
One last vague desire gripped Bruce Duncan's mind. Death was near. If he could only hear a final sound from the world above! His gasps seemed to echo through the box in which he lay. He made a great effort to hold his breath while he listened.
His hope was rewarded. He heard a sound. Not from above, but at the side. Loose dirt, forced down by the earth above; dirt, rattling beside the box in which he lay. He gasped.
The sound came again — at the side and near the end. It was a scratching sound. It became more definite than that! Something was striking against the end of the box!