Then the poor fellow began to settle again moaning piteously as he saw a hideous death staring him in the face.
Tom Reade's own face was deathly white from a realization of the other's peril. Of his own danger the young chief engineer had not once stopped to think.
Harry Hazelton was again on his feet. That much Foreman Payson had permitted, but strong-armed laborers stood on either side of the boy, and their detaining grips were on his arm.
Out yonder the doomed man saw the engulfing sand creeping up on a level with his eyes. He tried to scream, but the sand shifted into his mouth. In pitiable terror the poor fellow closed his mouth in order to delay death for another moment. Even to call for help would now be swiftly fatal!
Behind came the thunder of hoofs.
“Ropes!” shouted the horseman on Harry's mount.
He rode past the groups of men, close to the platform. Then, leaping from the saddle, the rider tossed a small bundle of ropes at Harry's feet. All were ropes and lines—not a raw-hide among them.
“There he goes! He's gone!” roared a score of frantic voices, as the engulfed laborer sank out of sight in the sand.
Harry Hazelton feverishly uncoiled one of the ropes, gathering a few folds in his right hand.
“Catch, Tom!” Harry shouted, making a cast.