’Phemie ran to the hall door. But when she opened it a great blast of choking smoke drove in.
“Oh, oh!” she cried. “We can’t escape by the stairway. What’ll we do? What shall we do?”
“There’s the fire-escape,” said Lyddy, trembling so that she could scarcely stand.
“What?” cried Aunt Jane again. “Me go down one o’ them dinky little ladders–and me with a hole as big as a half-dollar in the back of my stockin’? I never knowed it till I got started from home; the seam just gave.”
“I’d look nice going down that ladder. I guess not, says Con!” and she shook her head so vigorously that all the little jet trimmings upon her bonnet danced and sparkled in the gaslight just as her beadlike, black eyes snapped and danced.
“We–we’re in danger, Lyddy!” cried ’Phemie, tremulously.
“Oh, the boy!” exclaimed Lyddy, and flew to the kitchen, just in time to see the Smith family sliding down the plank into the laboratory–the two girls ahead, then Mother Smith, then Johnny Smith, and then the father. And all while the boy next door held the plank firmly in place against the window-sill of the burning flat.
Lyddy threw up the window and screamed something to him as the last Smith passed him and disappeared. She couldn’t have told what she said, for the very life of her; but the young man across the shaft knew what she meant.
He drew back the plank a little way, swung his weight upon the far end of it, and then let it drop until it was just above the level of her sill.
“Grab it and pull, Miss!” he called across the intervening space.