"Then there's a minute, lots of time!"—the words came again unbidden. How much, in God's name how much, of that minute had gone, how much was left? His teeth were set, his heart pounds so fierce and rapid that his breath came hard and choked, as he lowered himself to a little ledge, projecting out some seven or eight feet below the surface that had caught and held the body of Number Eighteen. The man lay there groaning. It was easy to see what had happened. A misplaced step in the climb, then a loosened rock, his balance gone, and the stone had crashed down upon his legs and ankles.
There was a look of helpless terror in the eyes of the wounded man as Haggerty reached and bent over him. "Get out," the white lips quivered. "You ain't got time. I give the signal. The blast'll be goin' now."
"There's a minute, lots of time," said Haggerty in a sing-song, crazy way. He was trying to fit the words to an air he had heard somewhere. Queer he couldn't remember it, the words were straight enough! Then he laughed—foolishly—as he worked like a madman!
He had raised the man in his arms and now, heaving with all his strength, was gradually pushing him up, up. The strain became terrific. Haggerty's muscles cracked. One of his arms was almost useless to him owing to the narrowness of the ledge that, to maintain even a precarious footing as, little by little, he rose to an upright position, forced him tight against the wall of rock and earth. Haggerty panted with cruel, gasping sobs. "Then there's a minute, lots of time!" The repetition of the words came surging upon him
