Hearing painful groans from beneath a pile of timbers, he set to work removing them, when he was arrested by the groaning voice muttering:
“Don’t try to help me—let me die in this trap! It’s as good as I deserve!”
“We might all be dead, friend, if we got our just deserts,” replied Dallas, and did not desist until he dragged out the imprisoned man from the obstructions that had pinned him down.
“Your arm’s broken, my poor fellow,” he said sympathetically to the dark, handsome young man, who opened his eyes, stared at him a moment in pallid wonder, then fainted dead away like a girl.
This did not surprise Dallas, who feared that the man might be internally injured.
But he borrowed a flask of whisky from the porter, and set to work to revive him with fine success.
The dark eyes opened again, and the man groaned woefully:
“So I’m dead, and yours is the first shade to greet me in the infernal regions, Dallas Bain?”
Laughing shortly, Dallas answered:
“I don’t know where we’ve met before, friend, but that’s my name, and I hope you’ll pardon my short memory in forgetting you. But really you’ve made a mistake. We are both on top of the ground yet, and you seem likely to survive your accident.”