The red light was displayed at the top of the open-hearth building, but this time it was another than Steve Rush who was hurrying to the scene to gather the facts and give orders for the care of the injured.
Steve was near the bottom of number seven pit with cinders and slag raining down on him in a perfect deluge. The lad instinctively pulled his cap visor down over his eyes to keep the stuff from getting into his eyes or burning his face. He had no idea what had happened, beyond the fact that there had been some sort of explosion.
With quick presence of mind he grabbed up the plank, standing it against the side of the pit and began to climb. Quick as he was, he was not quick enough to get clear of the shower. It enveloped him; it choked and half smothered him as he fought manfully to gain the top of the pit.
"It's gripping me," thought the lad. "I'll have a time getting out of this now."
The stuff was up to his knees, Rush meantime kicking out vigorously, pulling himself up inch by inch by sheer strength of arms and hands. Had he not been such a muscular lad he would have been at the bottom of the pit at that moment, probably dead.
The cinders and slag gained the boy's waist. He was nearing the top, but now he could make little or no impression. He shouted for help, but in the confusion none heard his call.
Steve kept struggling. He would never give up as long as there was a single breath left in him. Finally, however, he found that he was making absolutely no progress. The grip of the cinder and slag was getting tighter and tighter as the stuff was packed about him.
Suddenly through the pall of smoke and dirt a human face appeared, peering over into the pit. There was a bandage about the head of the man who was looking down into number seven.
"Is that you, Rush?" called a familiar voice.
"Ye-yes," answered the lad, scarcely above a whisper, for he was fast giving out. "Who—who are you? Help—help me out. I'm fa-fast and I—I'm burning u——"