edges of the opening and was lost in the
underbrush fringing its upper lip.

"What's that?" muttered the red-shirted foreman--"that ain't no
blast--My God!--they're blowed up!"

He sprang on a car and waved his arms with all his might: "Drop them
shovels! Git to the tunnel, every man of ye: here,--this way!" and he
plunged on, the men scrambling after him.

The Beast was a magnet now, drawing everything to its mouth. Gangs
of men swarmed up the side of the hill; stumbling, falling; picking
themselves up only to stumble and fall again. Down the railroad tracks
swept a repair squad who had been straightening a switch, their foreman
in the lead. From out of the cabins bareheaded women and children ran
screaming.

The end of the "fill" nearest the tunnel was now black with people;
those nearest to the opening were shielding their faces from the
deadly gas. The roar of voices was incessant; some shouted from sheer
excitement; others broke into curses, shaking their fists at The Beast;
blaming the management. All about stood shivering women with white
faces, some chewing the corners of their shawls in their agony.

Then a cry clearer than the others soared above the heads of the
terror-stricken mob as a rescue gang made ready to enter the tunnel:

"Water! Water! Get a bucket, some of ye! Ye can't live in that smoke
yet! Tie your mouth up if you're going in! Wet it, damn ye!--do ye want
to be choked stiff!"

A shrill voice now cut the air.

"It's the boss and the clerk and Mr. Bolton that's catched!"

"Yes--and a gang from the big shanty; I seen 'em goin' in," shouted back
the red-shirted foreman.

The volunteers--big, brawny men, who, warned by the foreman, had been
binding wet cloths over their mouths, now sprang forward, peering
into the gloom. Then the sound of footsteps was heard--nearer--nearer.
Groping through the blue haze stumbled a man, his shirt sleeve shielding
his mouth. On he came, staggering from side to side, reached the edge of
the mouth and pitched head-foremost as the fresh air filled his lungs. A
dozen hands dragged him clear. It was Bolton.

His clothes were torn and scorched; his face blackened; his left hand
dripping blood. Two of the shanty gang were next hauled out and laid on
the back of an overturned dirt car. They had been near the mouth when
the explosion came, and throwing themselves flat had crawled toward the
opening.

Bolton was still unconscious, but the two shanty men gasped ou