y the reflected light, there,
plainly enough, a rift could be seen opening slowly, more and more
widely, and evidently going straight for where Panton lay.

"Earthquake!" shouted Drew. "Quick! help!!" But the two men stood
shivering and helpless as if unable to stir, and the fate now of the
young geologist and the mate seemed to be sealed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

BILLY WRIGGS' BACCY-BOX.

It was dull, heavy, slow-going Billy Wriggs who saved their lives. One
moment he stood scratching his head, the next he had made a rush like a
bull, thrown himself down on his side, and somehow managing to get a
good grip of the mate's waistband, had swung him over towards Smith.

"Run him farder away," cried Wriggs, and he shuffled himself then to
Panton just as the rift opened widely.

There was a quick rustling sound, and a dull thud as Panton was gripped
hard--flesh as well as clothes, and swung over the sailor into
comparative safety.

But it was at the man's own expense, for he began to glide downward in a
slow, gradual way, first his legs, then his body, till only his chest
was visible as he dug his fingers into the ground and tried to hold on.

At such a time it might have been expected that the man would shriek out
in agony and despair, slowly subsiding as he was into a rift which
promised a death so horrible, that those who looked on were paralysed
for the moment beyond affording help; but Billy Wriggs' words did not
indicate suffering or terror, only a good-hearted friendly remembrance
of his messmate, for he shouted out as if by way of farewell,--

"Tommy, old mate, I leave yer my brass baccy-box."

The words galvanised Smith into action. He had seized and dragged
Panton away in time, but as he saw his companion sinking into the crack
which grew slowly longer and wider, he stood with his eyes staring and
jaw dropped till the words "baccy-box" reached his ears. Then he made a
rush to where Wriggs' head and shoulders only remained above ground,
stooped quickly, and seized him by his thin garment, and held on,
checking further descent and gazing wildly at his messmate, whose rugged
features upturned to the red glow of light appeared to be singularly
calm and placid.

"Steady, mate," he said mildly. "Don't tear my shirt."

"Won't I!" cried Smith, savagely. "Where's that theer box?"

"Breeches' pocket, mate."

"That's you all over," snarled Smith, as his hands got a better grip,
first one and then the oth