Boy Scouts at Sea; Or, A Chronicle of the B. S. S. Bright Wing

by Arthur Astor Carey

“The kitty, oh! the kitty! We have left the kitty up-stairs and she can’t get out!”

The house had caught fire on or near the roof, and the top story was almost gone. It was a five-story house, and the fourth story was already burning, with the smoke and flames penetrating into the third; and out of this third story the two women and the little child had escaped just about in time, but leaving behind them many things they would have liked to save. Among these was the cat, of whom they had not thought until the little girl had begun crying for it at the foot of the stairs. It was too late to go back in the ordinary way, because the smoke had gathered so thickly about them that it would have been almost impossible to get through; but Chippie suddenly remembered the directions in the Boy Scout Handbook about crawling along the floor, and so getting enough air to breathe while making one’s way through a burning house. He turned to one of the women and asked her on what floor their apartment was, and then, after thinking for a moment, he said:

“I’ll see whether it’s possible to get through on my hands and knees and bring the cat out.”

“Right you are, Chip,” said Dick, “and you, Tom, take hold of that trunk and carry it out into the middle of the street, while I get around into the back yard and see if there is any way of climbing up to the windows of the third story.”

Chippie darted up-stairs, and the last they saw of him was the soles of his boots over the top step of the staircase, as he began pushing his way first on hands and knees and then crawling on his stomach. The little girl—who evidently had no anxiety for her own safety—clapped her hands with delight, while the two women looked on with satisfaction and relief as Tom took hold of the handle of the trunk and dragged it out through the door.

In the meantime Dick had run around to the back of the house; and, after looking carefully for some time along the row of windows on the third story, recognized something white in the corner, pushing up against a pane of glass. He looked steadily for about half a minute, when he saw it move, and made up his mind that it was the cat. Quickly he measured the distance to the window with his eye, and noted the fact that a stone wall ran up about four feet, and also that a rain-pipe ascended from the top of the wall up to and past the window at a distance of about two feet to the left. If he could only climb up that rain-pipe and open the window, in case it was unbolted, he could give the cat a chance to jump upon his shoulder.

But there was something in Dick that did not want to do it; something that told him it would be a mighty unpleasant thing to slip down and get killed just then, or even to break an arm or leg. He knew what a painful thing a broken arm was, for he had been with his aunt once when she had slipped upon the ice and fallen backward, striking her elbow on the hard surface. He knew how much she had suffered, even after the arm was set, before she had regained the use of it. All these thoughts went through his mind in a flash. Then there came to him the voice of the little girl crying for her kitty; and then, again, like a quiet voice rising from somewhere inside of him, the familiar words, “A scout is brave.” It brought up the scene at prayers on the berth deck of the Bright Wing and the sound of another voice that was saying: “Without honor life is not worth living.” And all of a sudden Dick made up his mind that nothing was of any consequence to him at that moment but to save the kitten. The next instant he thought of Chippie, crawling on his way through the suffocating smoke, and ran back to the front door and up the stairs as far as he could go, calling out to him to come back, for they could rescue the cat through the window. To his surprise Chippie was already on his way out, having found it impossible to force [the] inner door, which was secured by a [latch] from within. Dick hurried him out [into] the fresh air and around to his station [at] the back of the house.

“Here, Chippie, give me a boost up this wall, and I guess I can get up the waterspout all right.”

It was difficult work, because he could not get his legs fully around the pipe, for it was too near the wall; but Dick had a pretty good knee grip from having ridden bareback at home, and he managed to hold with his knees enough of the distance that he had gained with his hands to make some headway. He would grasp with both hands and lift up his knees, and they would slide down again about half-way; but, nevertheless, he would make on an average about six inches every pull, and at the end of five minutes’ strenuous work his shoulder was above the level of the window. Here, luckily, a brick had fallen out of the wall, making a little place where he could rest one foot; and so he waited for a minute or two to get his breath before reaching out to the window. He soon recovered his wind and stretched out his hand; but, although the window was not bolted, he could not raise it because his hand was too far from the center. He then determined to break the pane of glass nearest to him; and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out his jackknife, and, with two sharp strokes, knocked a hole into the pane without injuring his hand. But his arm was not long enough to reach the kitten, and all that he could do was to hold it out within easy distance for her to step on. Kitty’s fur was bristling with fear, but it was interesting to note with what daintiness she managed to step over the broken glass on to the outer sill. Then came a few moments of apparent reflection while [she seemed to be measuring the distance to a really secure footing on Dick’s shoulder]. He encouraged her with his voice; and, with a single spring, she landed on his shoulder with her claws piercing through his coat and dangerously near his skin.