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.

Out of the grimy smoke two figures slowly loomed up; one carried the other on his back; whether shanty men or not, no one could tell.

The crowd, no longer controlled by the foreman, surged about the opening.  Ready hands were held out, but the man carrying his comrade waved them aside and staggered on, one hand steadying his load, the other hanging loose.  The big foreman started to rush in, but stopped.  Something in the burdened man’s eye had checked him, it was as if a team were straining up a steep hill, making any halt fatal.

“It’s the boss and the clerk!” shouted the foreman.  “Fall back, men,—­fall back, damn ye!”

The man came straight on, reached the lips of the opening, lunged heavily to the right, tried to steady his burden and fell headlong.

CHAPTER XV

The street lamps were already lighted on the following afternoon—­ when Ruth, with Peter and Miss Felicia, alighted at the small station of Corklesville.  All through the day she had gone over in her mind the words of the despatch: 

Explosion in tunnel.  MacFarlane hurt—­serious—­will recover.  Break news gently to daughter.

Bolton Asst.  Engineer

Other despatches had met the party on the way down; one saying, “No change,” signed by the trained nurse, and a second one from Bolton in answer to one of Peter’s:  “Three men killed—­others escaped.  MacFarlane’s operation successful.  Explosion premature.”

Their anxiety only increased:  Why hadn’t Jack telegraphed?  Why leave it to Bolton?  Why was there no word of him,—­and yet how could Bolton have known that Peter was with Ruth, except from young Breen.  In this mortal terror Peter had wired from Albany:  “Is Breen hurt?” but no answer had been received at Poughkeepsie.  There had not been time for it, perhaps, but still there was no answer, nor had his name been mentioned in any of the other telegrams.  That in itself was ominous.