He called the name somewhat feebly.
“Bennie!”
It was a shout at last, and there was terror in his voice.
He raised himself to his feet, and stood leaning against the shattered frame-work of the door. He felt weak and dizzy. He was bruised and bleeding, too, but he did not know it; he was not thinking of himself, but of Bennie, who had not answered to his call, and who might be dead.
He was in total darkness, but he had matches in his pocket. He drew one out and stood, for a moment, in trembling hesitancy, dreading what its light might disclose. Then he struck it, and there, almost at his feet, lay his cap, with his lamp still attached to it.
He lighted the lamp and looked farther.
At the other side of the entrance, half-hidden by the wreck of the door, he saw Bennie, lying on his side, quite still. He bent down and flashed the light into Bennie’s face. As he did so the blind boy opened his eyelids, sighed, moved his hands, and tried to rise.
“Tom!”
The word came in a whisper from his lips.
“Yes, Bennie, I’m here; are you hurt?”