“Here, Spike— Where are you— Good old Spike. Come here.”
Again he heard the whine almost at his feet, and reaching down he groped about in the smoke.
His hand came in contact with the animal, huddled beside a bookcase Jeff had not noticed before. Jeff sensed something strange about the animal and immediately began feeling for his collar. Hooking his fingers into it, he drew Spike out of his hiding place and lifted him into his arms, dropping his suit case with its contents of precious baseball paraphernalia which until now he had not realized he had been carrying through all his peril. In the smoke he made a hasty examination of the dog. He was injured. Something had fallen on him, perhaps as a result of the explosion. One side was badly cut and bruised and his two front legs hung limp and helpless.
“Crackey, Spike, you sure got it rough, didn’t you?” said Jeff soothingly. “How did it happen that the fellows went off and left you. Or did you get lost and—and—say, you are crippled, aren’t you? You can’t get out of here alive alone, that’s sure. I don’t know whether I’m going to get out myself. But we’ll try, old fellow, we’ll try.”
He snuggled the dog close to his chest and then, still protecting his eyes and nose with his crooked arm, he staggered on down the passageway again, hoping that somehow, by the merest chance, the merest good luck, he would find an exit, or perhaps come in contact with some of the firemen who must be fighting the flames inside the building. He knew that he must find relief soon or—
He tripped. Something smooth and round was under his feet. It was a line of hose! Instantly stories he had read and heard told of how firemen had saved themselves under similar circumstances came to his mind. The hose line led somewhere. It was a guide to the way out of the building. Many a fireman, by following a hose line, had found open air, and relief from smoke punishment. They usually followed it on their knees with their faces close to the cold, pulsating rubber, for the water throbbing through the line generated a layer of cold, sweet, fresh air about the hose which could be breathed.
Jeff dropped to his knees and holding his nose on one side of the hose and Spike’s on the other he struggled forward, following the line. On he crawled. His knees and elbows were soon skinned and filled with splinters. But he knew that if he kept on he would sooner or later find a way out. It was hard going and even with his nose to the hose line he could not get enough clear air to overcome the gases he had swallowed. He was growing weaker. He only hoped that he had strength enough to keep up a little longer. He exerted every ounce of will power he possessed and fought stubbornly. Then suddenly, to make the situation more horrible than ever, the hose line began to move. Some one was pulling away from him his only guide to safety. Jeff in desperation clutched at the smooth black rubber tube madly! Slowly it drew away from him! In desperation he half struggled to his feet and shouted frantically! And the next instant he beheld four vague shapes looming out of the smoke and coming toward him. They were firemen. They had come to his rescue.
The firemen half led and half carried Jeff, semi-conscious and still clutching Spike, to the open air and safety. A great shout went up from the crowd outside when they saw them appear in the doorway of the building and make their way through swirling smoke clouds to the campus.
Eager hands seized Jeff and carried him out of the danger zone; then with a crowd of Custer and Pennington boys gathered around, Jeff was laid on the grass, and one of the school physicians began to work over him.