“Save them! save them!” he shouted, as Ralph kept pace with him.
“Don’t get excited, Mr. Fogg,” spoke Ralph reassuringly. “We shall be in time.”
“But she cannot move—she is in the bedroom directly over the kitchen. Oh, this is a judgment for all my wickedness!”
“Be a man,” encouraged Ralph. “Here we are—let me help you.”
“Up the back stairs!” cried Fogg. “They are nearest to her.”
“No, no—you can never get up them,” declared Ralph.
The side door of the house was open, showing a pair of stairs, but they were all ablaze. Smoke and sparks poured up this natural funnel fiercely. Ralph caught at the arm of his companion and tried to detain him, but Fogg broke away from his grasp.
Ralph saw him disappear beyond the blazing barrier. He was about to run around to the front of the house, when he heard a hoarse cry. Driven back by the overpowering smoke, Fogg had 91 stumbled. He fell headlong down a half a dozen steps, his head struck the lower platform, and he rolled out upon the gravel walk, stunned.
Ralph quickly dragged the man out of the range of the fire and upon the grass. He tried to arouse Fogg, but was unsuccessful. There was no time to lose. Seizing a half-filled bucket standing by the well near by, Ralph deluged the head of the insensible fireman with its contents. It did not revive him. Ralph sped to the front of the house, ran up on the stoop and jerked at the knob of the front screen door.
It was locked, but Ralph tore it open in an instant. A woman’s frantic screams echoed as the young railroader dashed into the house. He was quickly up the front stairs. At the top landing he paused momentarily, unable to look about him clearly because of the dense smoke that permeated the place.