Wild Charley surveyed the situation, and concluded that, though hazardous in the extreme, an attempt might be made to enter the burning house.
"Where is the box?" was Charley's only question.
"Under the bed in my room. But, for Heaven's sake, do not be rash."
Wild Charley said nothing more. He ran past the firemen and gained the front door, regardless of cries to stop which arose from many throats.
The staircase was on fire, but he dashed through the flames, which licked his body as if they had him in deathly embrace, and was soon lost to sight.
Suddenly a tremendous shout arose. Standing on the roof of the house was perceived the figure of Charley, who held a box under his arm. So far his desperate enterprise had been successful, but he knew not how to regain the street, as the burning of the staircase had cut off all retreat.
The firemen now raised their ladder-like apparatus against the side of the flaming house, and Charley commenced his descent, but when about halfway down, the crowd saw him disappear.
The roof had given way.
Wild Charley was precipitated into the midst of the flames, and everyone was convinced that he was beyond help now.
Mr. and Mrs. Floyd and the young gentlemen were taken into the house of a sympathizing neighbor, where the grief of the schoolmaster and his wife had full vent in private. Their sorrow for the loss of their son was overwhelming.