It was but the work of a few seconds to shove the ladder over the edge of the low roof, and down it the rescued ones, including the lame man and the Motor Boys, soon made their way to the ground.
By this time the fire apparatus had arrived and with it many men and boys to help. In addition to the chemical stream turned into the blazing kitchen, volunteers dashed on the flames as many pails of water as they could.
So quick and efficient was the work that the fire was confined to one wing of the house and it was out in half an hour, the kitchen being about the only room burned, though all through the place was the smell and black soot of the smoke.
“My kettle of lard that I was heating to fry doughnuts must have boiled over,” explained the woman—a Mrs. Gordon—when something like calmness had been restored. “I left the grease boiling for a minute while I ran upstairs to see if my brother wanted anything,” and she nodded toward Mr. Cromley. “All of a sudden I heard a sort of explosion, and when I tried to get down the stairs I couldn’t. The girls were up in their room, and they ran back to where brother Bill and I were, and so we were all trapped. If you boys hadn’t come along when you did we might all have been burned to death,” she concluded.
“Oh, I guess some one else would have saved you,” said Jerry. “The alarm got in quickly enough, anyhow.”
“Yes, we have an extension telephone upstairs, and I called from there,” explained Mrs. Gordon. “But I didn’t see how we were going to get out in time.”
“Well, it’s all right now,” said Bill Cromley, limping about to inspect the damage done. It was not as much as seemed at first, though it was bad enough.
“My husband will feel terrible when he comes home and sees that I can’t cook a meal,” sighed Mrs. Gordon.
“You can use my kitchen,” offered one neighbor kindly.
“And mine! And mine!” came other proffers.