'All right, Jack?'
'Yes, old man; you are just in time; I've hardly got room to stand in, and I'm nearly smothered.' He was crouching against the 'face' of the new drive.
Tom dropped his pick and fell back against the man behind him.
'Oh, God! my back!' he cried.
Suddenly he struggled to his knees, and then fell forward on his hand and dragged himself close to the hole in the end of the drive.
'Jack!' he gasped, 'Jack!'
'Right, old man; what's the matter?'
'I've hurt my heart, Jack!―Put your hand―quick!…The sun's going down.'
Jack's hand came out through the hole, Tom gripped it, and then fell with his face in the damp clay.
They half carried, half dragged him from the drive, for the roof was low and they were obliged to stoop. They took him to the shaft and sent him up, lashed to the rope.
A few blows of the pick, and Jack scrambled from his prison and went to the surface, and knelt on the grass by the body of his brother. The diggers gathered round and took off their hats. And the sun went down.
