The machinery of a paper mill seldom stops, night or day, save for repairs. It was in the month of September that it was necessary to stop for the repair of a broken wheel. The sorting-room, however, was kept in operation.
At twelve o’clock the “girls” repaired to their homes for dinner—all but Jenny York. Occasionally Becky staid to keep her company, but not often, the stipulations with the council requiring her to be punctual to her meals at home. Certainly Jenny fared all the better for this, for Becky’s return always added something nice to her plain fare.
But one day Jenny had a fierce attack of her grinding pains, and all the forenoon she lay upon a couch of bags, and when dinner time came, spite of her wishes, Becky would not leave her. They were alone; Jenny, just recovering, was faint and ghostly white; Becky, bending over her, was bathing her temples, when, suddenly, outside, the cry of “Fire!” was raised. Becky sprang to her feet, to find the room thickening with smoke, coming up through the chinks in the floor. A too common accident in paper mills had occurred. A bag of cotton waste had burst into flames, and the store-room beneath was a furnace of fire. Her first thought was—no thought at all. The instinct of self-preservation took her into the machine-room very quick, and then she thought of Jenny. She ran back to the terrified girl, crying,—
“Don’t be frightened, Jenny. The mill’s on fire; but I’ll save you.”
She stooped and lifted Jenny in her arms. All the “waste” of her early life served her well now. Exercise had made that small frame tough and muscular, and she easily bore Jenny towards the door. But suddenly the iron doors between the two buildings were closed with a crash. Some crazy operative, thinking only of the danger to the main building, had taken this precaution, without looking into the room. Becky dropped her burden, and flew to the doors. She screamed for help; she beat the iron with her fists in vain. Then she ran to the windows on the sides; there were none at the end. But the thick, black smoke, rolling up outside, obscured the light. No escape there; they were walled in on every side. The smoke in the room was so thick it was with difficulty they could breathe.
No escape? Yes, one. Becky cast her eyes aloft. In the centre of the roof was a scuttle, ten feet above her. Lying along the side of the room was a ladder. Becky sprang for it. It was very heavy; but desperation nerved her arms, and it was raised.
All this time Jenny lay upon the floor, watching with wishful eyes the movements of Becky. O, if she only had a little strength now! Becky came to her side, and raised her once more in her arms.
“Now clasp me close, and we’ll soon reach the roof, and be out of this stifling smoke, any way.”
With her heavy burden she toiled up the ladder, rested a moment at the top, then threw up the scuttle, and reached the roof. There she laid Jenny down and ran to the edge. Right and left the smoke was rising in dense volumes; but at the farther end all was clear, and beneath it was the steep roof of the stable. There was her chance for escape. She could drop easily; it was but ten feet. But Jenny! The poor girl would scarce escape without injury. Only a moment she pondered, then ran back to the scuttle, and descended the ladder, at the risk of her life. Near the iron doors the flames were shooting up through the floor, and dancing on the wall. The smoke was stifling. She caught up several empty bags, and quickly regained her place upon the roof.