Late in the afternoon Billy’s small cousin, Madge Price—little Miss Snow, her brother Hec called her because of her white hair—ran in, gesticulating wildly, scarcely able to speak coherently.
“Quick! Come! It’s Dottie Buckman! She’s all swallowed up! She’ll be dead in a minute!”
Before she had finished, Billy swung her to his arm and ran out with her, questioning as he went. Max and Sydney followed. Around the corner they hurried to where the city, in the process of street grading, had made a huge cut.
Instantly they knew. All the children in the neighborhood played there at “making caves.” Many little hands had worked far into the sand bank, easy to dig yet damp and hard packed enough to stay in place. But at last the root-netted crust above became too thin to support its weight, and had fallen, imprisoning the little child in its fatal clutch.
“Oh, oh! She’ll be all dead!” Madge cried piteously as Billy put her down.
Heedless of her, the boys frantically tore at the earth with their hands. Billy grasped the situation, as Max could see, while he snatched at the earth with inadequate fingers.
“Run, Madge! Tell mother, everybody! Tell them to bring shovels!” Billy commanded, and sent out ringing calls for help in every direction.
There were no men near at that hour, and only women came running with every sort of an implement from a shovel to kitchen spoons; but they worked as frantically as the boys.
“Some one get a basin of water,” Max commanded.
“Who’s going to stop to drink water?” Billy asked sarcastically.