The line swirled through the air, then settled on the sands.
“O-o-o-oh!” groaned Hazelton, for the rope had fallen four feet to one side of Reade, and the latter, hemmed in as he was, could not reach it.
“Take your time and make a sure throw, Harry!” Tom called cheerily.
Again Hazelton made a throw—and failed.
“Let me, have that! My head's cooler,” called Foreman Payson.
He made two quick, steady throws, but each shot wide of the mark.
“Let me have that!” screamed Harry, snatching the line away.
“There are lines enough. Two men might be making throws,” spoke a quiet voice behind them.
Payson nodded, and bent over for another line.
All trace of the doomed laborer had now disappeared. As for Tom, the sand was reaching up under his arm-pits. The young chief engineer had had the presence of mind to keep his arms free, but soon they too must be swallowed up.