Somehow, the child seemed to have a premonition of disaster.
The afternoon wore on very slowly, and Bennie gave a long sigh of relief when he heard Tom’s last trip come rumbling down the airway.
“Give me the dinner-pail, Bennie!” shouted Tom, as the door closed behind the last car, “an’ you catch on behind—Whoa, Billy!” as the mule trotted on around the corner into the heading.
“Come, Bennie, quick! Give me your hand; we’ll have to run to catch him now.”
But even as the last word trembled on the boy’s lips, there came a blast of air, like a mighty wind, and in the next instant a noise as of bursting thunder, and a crash that shook the foundations of the mines, and the two boys were hurled helplessly against Bennie’s closed door behind them.
The fall had come.
The terrible roar died away in a series of rumbling echoes, and, at last, stillness reigned.
“Bennie!”
It was Tom who spoke.
“Bennie!”