"Look out!" he shouted with all his lungs.
Pedestrians rushed wildly from beneath the shed which extended, as a protection to them, over the sidewalk. Horses were jerked rearing backwards. The black beam crashed through the shed and through the pine sidewalk. Foley dashed inside and for the ladder.
Up on the great scaffolding hands had seized the wrists of the pendant man and lifted him to safety. All were now leaning over the platform's edge, gazing far down at the ragged hole in the shed.
"D'you see Pete?" Tom asked at large, in a strained voice.
There were several noes.
"That was certainly the last o' Pig Iron," muttered one of the gang.
He was not disputed.
"It wasn't my fault," said the signalman, as pale as paper. "I didn't give any wrong signals. Someone below must 'a' got caught in the rope."
"I'm going down," said Tom; and started rapidly for the ladder's head—to be met with an ascending current of the sort of English story books ascribe to pirates. Pete's body followed the words so closely as to suggest a possible relation between the two. Tom worked Pete's hand. The men crowded up.
"Now who the"—some pirate words—"done that?" Pete demanded.