Swiftly sticking the candle upright in a crevice, he bent over the fallen man and, with infinite caution, began to lift the pieces of ore from his legs.
Despite the shock he had experienced, Orren Fairchilds was quite conscious. Lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the tottering mass which was poised above him, he knew well that death was staring him in the face, and he appreciated to the full the heroism of the man who was deliberately risking his own life in what seemed a futile attempt to save another’s.
“You can’t do it,” he whispered. “Leave me. Get back--quickly! Another moment and it will fall!”
He dared not raise his voice; his eyes never left the trembling rock above him.
Dick Merriwell made no answer; apparently he did not consider one necessary. One by one the heavy chunks of rock were lifted up and put aside.
“Go, I tell you,” repeated the mine owner in that same suppressed tone. “Why don’t you go? Do you want to be crushed to death?”
The Yale man dashed the sweat from his eyes.
“Do you really think I will?” was all he said.
“No,” breathed the older man. “No, I don’t; but I wish----”
He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with horror. The rock was moving. Slowly, slowly, it crept forward, sending rattling showers of dust and small stones in its wake.
“It’s coming!” gasped Fairchilds. “It’s moving! For God’s sake save yourself!”
Abandoning all caution, Dick rolled the last piece of rock from the fallen man and, catching him in his arms, staggered backward.
There was another crash, louder than the first, as the great mass plunged downward into the tunnel. Something struck Merriwell on the right shoulder, hurling him against the wall, and thence to his knees.
Then came the flash of light along the passage, the sound of hurrying feet, the quick, staccato note of many voices raised in excitement, and the next instant Dick felt himself caught up in a powerful grasp and literally carried out of the drift into the main tunnel.
Wrenching himself free, he turned and looked into the face of Brad Buckhart, drawn, white and horror-stricken, great beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead.
“You?” Merriwell exclaimed. “I thought---- Thank you, old fellow.”
The Texan drew one sleeve across his forehead.