“Shure the sand is a-suckin’ me in fasther an’ fasther,” cried Barney. “Shure wud yez help me, Misther Frank?”
But Frank Reade, Jr., had already seen the trouble.
He was coming to the spot as fast as he could.
In his hands he carried his rifle and a lariat.
“Keep cool, Barney,” he cried, as he came up. “Don’t make a move till I tell you.”
“All right, sor,” cried Barney, readily. “Phwativer is it, sor?”
“Why, it is a prairie quicksand,” replied Frank. “They are not uncommon hereabouts.”
“Shure, I’ve no desire to go to the cinter av the airth.”
“We won’t let you,” cried Frank. “Here, pass this under your arm.”
Frank placed the rifle across the space of quicksand and Barney passed his arm over it.