"Faither! Faither!" he called, terror in his voice and anxiety in his
little heart, but there was no reassuring answer. He felt his breathing
getting difficult; the air was thick with dust and heavy with the smell
of rotting wood and damp decaying matter.
"Faither! Faither!" he called again louder in his agony, darting
forward, thinking to go to their assistance, and knocking his head
against a boulder.
"John! Faither! I'm feart," and he began to cry. Afraid to move, unable
to see, he staggered from one side to another, bruising his face and
arms against the jagged sides, the blood already streaming from his
bruises, and his heart frantic with fear.
"Oh, faither! faither! Where are ye?" and he began to crawl up the
incline, in desperate fear, while still the rumbling and crashing went
on in long rolling thunder. "Oh! oh!" he moaned, now almost mad with
terror. "Faither! John! Where are ye! Oh! oh!" and he fell back stunned
by striking his head against a low part of the roof.
Again he scrambled to his feet, certain now that some disaster had
happened, since there was no response to his appeals, and again he was
knocked to the ground by striking his head against the side of the
roadway.
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