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.