He tried to scream, but the sand shifted into his mouth.
In pitiable terror the poor fellow closed his mouth in order to delay death for another moment.

Even to call for help would now be swiftly fatal! Behind came the thunder of hoofs.
"Ropes!" shouted the horseman on Harry's mount.
He rode past the groups of men, close to the platform.

Then, leaping from the saddle, the rider tossed a small bundle of ropes at Harry's feet.

All were ropes and lines--not a raw-hide among them.
"There he goes! He's gone!" roared a score of frantic voices, as the engulfed laborer sank out of sight in the sand.
Harry Hazelton feverishly uncoiled one of the ropes, gathering a few folds in his right hand.
"Catch, Tom!" Harry shouted, making a cast.
The line swirled through the air, then settled on the sands.
"O-o-o-oh!" groaned Hazelton, for the rope had fallen four feet to one side of Reade, and the latter, hemmed in as he was, could not reach it.
"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.