The steam-shovel man scrambled to his feet, active and apparently unhurt, as if such incidents were all in the day's work. Plunging through the débris of the slide, he peered into Walter's besmeared and bleeding countenance. The voice and the words had sounded familiar and assisted identification.
"Well, I'll be scuppered!" roared Jack Devlin. "Goodwin is your name. You took my advice and beat it to the Isthmus. I'll have you out of this in a jiffy."
A gang of laborers arrived a moment later, and with Devlin shouting stentorian orders, their shovels speedily and carefully dug out the hapless Walter. They were about to carry him to the nearest switch-tender's shelter when he groaned protestingly:
"Ouch! Don't grab my right arm. It hurts."
Battered and sore as he was, all other damage was forgotten as he tried to raise the precious right arm, his pitching arm, the mainstay of his fortunes on the Isthmus. An acute pain stabbed him between wrist and elbow. He murmured sorrowfully:
"It is broken or badly sprained. I'm not dead, but I certainly am unfortunate."
"Those that try to stop a landslide in the Cut are generally lugged out feet first," cheerfully remarked Devlin. "The landscape isn't fastened down very tight. Were you looking for me?"
"Yes. And I found you, didn't I?" Walter grinned as he added: "We were thrown together, all right."
They made him as comfortable as possible, while Devlin forgot his sorrow over the plight of his beloved "Twenty-six."
"I feel sort of responsible for you, Goodwin," said he. "I'm going to put you in the hospital car of the next train to Ancon, where they'll give you the best of everything. I can't go with you, but I'll try to see you to-night. I must boss a first-aid-to-the-injured job on that poor old steam-shovel of mine. She looks perfectly ridiculous, doesn't she? Now, cheer up."