After half a dozen efforts he climbed the dirt pile and went back through the treacherous holes. The rider came so fast! “Oh!” groaned the boy, “I’ll never make it! Bud’ll t’ink we’re off somewheres an’ pull on!—Bud! BUD!” he called at the top of his lungs; but the tunnel swallowed the little voice.
Desperation made him entirely reckless. It was any way to get out before the mail-man was beyond call. Glairy with sweat, he pulled, tugged, squirmed and wriggled along, until a dirty, small bundle rolled down almost under the mail-rider’s feet.
“Whoa!” shouted Bud with an astonished oath. “What’s the—why boy, what’s the matter? Damn it! how you scart me!”
One look at him froze the man; he said no more, but waited, watching the working face of the child, who was mastering himself once more, in order to tell a quick, straight story, that no time might be lost.
“Der tunnel’s fell in, Bud; Jim’s in dere where der frame’s held. He’s livin’ yet, but he’s got a tur’ble cut in his head.”
The mail-rider drew out paper and tobacco, and rolled a cigarette. It was his method of biting his hand. He loved the man inside that dark blotch on the hill-side with an affection only known where men are few and strong. And because he loved him, Bud was going to keep his head cool and clear, to find the right thing to do and do it the right way.
For all his calm outer man the mind within was whirling. He turned to the tense little face before him for help, and with an admiration that knew no bounds.
“How far back?” he asked.
“T’ree frames was held—dere was seven, ten foot apart—how much is dat?”
“Forty feet—ten foot apart! No wonder! Oh, Jim! How could you have been so careless?”