"Where, oh! where?" panted Bart.
He threw out his arms wildly, groping to locate the speaker, whom he knew to be the roustabout. "Where is he—where is he?"
He had come in contact with the roustabout now, who with all his timidity was proving himself a hero in the present instance.
"Lying on the floor—stumbled over him—I'm on fire, too!"
Bart's feet touched a prostrate form. It was moved along as Bart stooped and got hold of the shoulders.
The roustabout was helping him. They dragged together, stumbling to the doorway on the very verge of fatal danger, and reeled across the platform.
The roustabout jumped to the ground. Once there he gently but in a masterly way drew the inanimate form of Mr. Stirling from the platform, and carried him over to a pile of ties outside of the glow and scorch of the burning express shed.
Bart anxiously scanned his father's face. It was black and blistered but he was breathing naturally.
"Overcome with the smoke—or tumbled and was stunned," declared the roustabout.
Excited approaching shouts caused the speaker to glare down the tracks. Half a dozen people were hurrying to the scene of the fire. The roustabout with a nervous gasp vanished in the darkness.