“We’re here,” Ted called. “That you Billy?”
“Oh, yeah,” came a pitiful little squeak. “We’re smoth-rin’ to death. Quick—please—quick.”
“There’s a board,” Ted ordered, at once taking charge of the rescue. “You can dig with that, Nan. I’ll dig with my hands.”
Exactly like a very eager dog that digs with all fours when he wants to get in or out of a pit, Ted went to work. The light sand flew in clouds as he pawed and kicked, so that compared with his efforts Nancy’s board-shovelling seemed provokingly slow.
“Oh, this is no good!” she finally burst out. “I can do that, too,” and without a thought but for the rescue, Nancy dropped to the position Ted was working in, and was soon digging and kicking until her clouds of sand rivalled his.
“Oh! Oh!” came repeated calls and groans. “We—can’t—breathe. Move the board! It’s pressing—”
“We’re coming. We’re coming,” Nancy called back. “Don’t get frightened; you can’t smother now.”
But it was not easy to reach the imprisoned youngsters, for a collapsed sand hill is as slippery to control as a rushing water fall. Every time the rescuers thought themselves within reach of a board, an avalanche of sand would tumble upon it and bury the end they tried to grasp.
At last Nancy grabbed hold of a big stick that protruded from the hill.
“Here Ted,” she called. “Get this! It’s under a board—”