“They’ll never get here in time,” said Mr. Alcando in a low voice.  “We’ll never get him out in time.”

“We—­we must!” cried Blake, as again he began digging.

Mr. Alcando had spoken the truth.  The men could not get there in time—­Joe could not be dug out in time—­if it had depended on human agencies.  For not only was Blake unaware of the exact spot where his chum lay buried, but, at least so it seemed, there had been such a mass of earth precipitated over him that it would mean hours before he could be gotten out.

However, fate, luck, Providence, or whatever you choose to call it, had not altogether deserted the moving picture boys.  The very nature of the slide, and the hill on which it had occurred, was in Joe’s favor.  For as Blake, after a despairing glance at the approaching column of men, bent again to his hopeless task, there was a movement of the earth.

“Look out!” cried Mr. Alcando.

He would have spoken too late had what happened been of greater magnitude.  As it was Blake felt the earth slipping from beneath his feet, and jumped back instinctively.  But there was no need.

Beyond him another big slide had occurred, and between him and Mr. Alcando, and this last shift of the soil, was a ridge of rocks that held them to their places.

Down in a mass of mud went another portion of the hill, and when it had ceased moving Blake gave a cry of joy.  For there, lying in a mass of red sand, was Joe himself, and beside him was the camera, the tripod legs sticking out at grotesque angles.

“Joe!  Joe!” yelled Blake, preparing to leap toward his chum.

“Be careful!” warned Mr. Alcando.  “There may be danger—­”

But no known danger could have held Blake back.

“He is there!” Blake cried.  “We were digging in the wrong place.”

“I thought so,” said the Spaniard.  But Blake did not stay to listen to him.  Now he was at Joe’s side.  The slide had laid bare a ledge of rock which seemed firm enough to remain solid for some time.

“Joe!  Joe!” cried Blake, bending over his chum.  And then he saw what it was that had probably saved Joe’s life.  The boy’s big rubber coat had been turned up and wound around his head and face in such a manner as to keep the sand and dirt out of his eyes, nose and mouth.  And, also wrapped up in the folds of the garment, was the camera.

Rapidly Blake pulled the coat aside.  Joe’s pale face looked up at him.  There was a little blood on the forehead, from a small cut.  The boy was unconscious.

“Joe!  Joe!” begged Blake.  “Speak to me!  Are you all right?”

He bared his chum’s face to the pelting rain—­the best thing he could have done, for it brought Joe back to consciousness—­slowly at first, but with the returning tide of blood the fainting spell passed.

“We must get him to the boat,” said Mr. Alcando, coming up now.

“Are you hurt?  Can you walk?” asked Blake.