They press eagerly against the wall, and in their feebleness pick vainly at it with their fingers. It will not yield. Even Monk Tooley, who was so fierce and strong five days before, can make no impression on it.
Now but one foot of wall remains, and Tom Evert pauses in his task to dash the sweat-drops from his eyes, and to call, as he has already a dozen times,
"Holloa! Holloa in there!"
Like an echo comes the answer, faint but distinct,
"Holloa! Hurry!"
He only stops to call louder than before, but with a tremble in his voice,
"Is—Paul—Evert—alive?" and with ear held against the wet wall he breathlessly awaits the answer.
"Yes."
The word is enough, and with the fury and strength of a giant he again attacks the wall. He pays no attention to the relief who is ready to take his place. He knows nothing, cares for nothing, save that his boy is waiting for him beyond those few inches of crumbling coal.
At last his pick strikes through. A few more desperate strokes and the barrier is broken away. He springs into the breast. Another instant and his crippled lad, whom he had thought never to see again, is strained to his heart, and the burly miner is sobbing like a child.