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 out the terrible facts: “The boss and the clerk, was jes' starting out when everything let go”; they choked; “ther' ain't nothing left of the other men. We passed the boss and the clerk; they was blowed agin a car; the boss was stove up, the clerk was crawlin' toward him. They'll never git out alive: none on 'em. We fellers was jes' givin' up when we see the daylight and heared you a-yellin'.” A hush now fell on the mass of people, broken by the piercing shriek of a woman,--the wife of a shanty man. She would have rushed in had not some one held her. Bolton sat up, gazing stupidly about him. Part of the story of the escaped men had reached his ears. He struggled to his feet and staggerd toward the opening of the tunnel. The red-shirted foreman caught him under the armpits and whirled him back. “That ain't no place for you!” he cried--“I'll go!” A muffled cry was heard. It came from a bystander lying flat on his belly inside the mouth: he had crawled in as far as he could. “Here they come!” New footfalls grew distinct, whether one or more the listeners could not make out. Under the shouts of the red-shirted foreman to give them air, the throng fell back.