The old man did not hear him. There was too much clamor about him.
Sandy and Jerry both dug their toes into the hard surface of the ground beneath them—like track sprinters ready to go off their mark. But the man was too far away. They could not have covered twenty feet before that horrible bucket would have done its awful work. With dreadful speed, the huge bucket—weighing two tons or more—was swinging closer, ever closer. And still the old man was unconscious of the fact that perhaps only a few seconds lay between his life and his death.
With a cry of despair, Sandy Steele sought to tear his eyes away. But he could not. Sandy was not that sort of youth. In anguish, his eyes roved the surrounding area—hunting for some means to save the old man’s life. Then they fell upon a chunk of ore. It was just a trifle bigger than a baseball.
Without a second’s delay, Sandy Steele pounced upon the piece of ore. He grasped it with his two-fingered, pitcher’s grip and whirled and threw with all his might. Every ounce of strength in Sandy Steele’s lanky, cablelike muscles went into that throw. The ore left his hand and whizzed toward the big bucket with all the speed that had had the Poplar City batters eating out of Sandy’s hand only a few weeks ago.
CLANG!
The ore struck the bucket with a resounding, echoing ring!
Instantly, the old man’s head turned.
He saw death but a few feet from his head.
In the next instant, he dropped to the ground and the bucket passed harmlessly above him.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sandy Steele cried.