“Maria—!”
“Here I am, Freder!”
“I can hardly hear you....”
“Get the children out first, Freder.... The wall’s sinking....”
Grot came lumbering along and threw himself on the ground by Freder’s side, clutching down into the pit from which the children were scrambling out, screaming. He grabbed the children by the hair, by the neck, by the head, and hauled them up, as one pulls up radishes. His eyes were popping out of his head with fear. He hurled the children over his body, so that they tumbled over, shrieking miserably. He cursed like a hundred devils.
“Isn’t that nearly all of them—?”
He bawled down two names....
“Father, father—!” sobbed two little voices in the depths.
“The devil take you, you couple of Jackanapes!” roared the man. He rummaged the children aside with his fists, as if he were shovelling rubbish on the dustheap. Then he gulped, snorted, clutched out, and had two children hanging around his neck, wet and shivering piteously, but alive—and their limbs stood more in danger of his fumbling fists than previously of the water and the tumbling stones.
With the children in both arms, Grot rolled over on his side. He sat up and planted the couple before him.