"Take your time and make a sure throw, Harry!" Tom called cheerily.
Again Hazelton made a throw--and failed.
"Let me, have that! My head's cooler," called Foreman Payson.
He made two quick, steady throws, but each shot wide of the mark.
"Let me have that!" screamed Harry, snatching the line away.
"There are lines enough. Two men might be making throws," spoke a quiet
voice behind them.
Payson nodded, and bent over for another line.
All trace of the doomed laborer had now disappeared. As for Tom, the
sand was reaching up under his arm-pits. The young chief engineer had
had the presence of mind to keep his arms free, but soon they too must
be swallowed up.
"Good throw--whoever sent it!" cheered Tom Reade, as a final cast--
Harry's--sent a line within six inches of his face.
Tom could not see those back at the platform, for his back was turned to
the eastward, and he could no longer swing his body about.
"Get it under your arms-quick, Tom, or you're done for, too!" screamed
Harry.
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