“The place beneath is all on fire,” cried Uncle Bob, flinging himself on his knees. “The floor’s quite hot.”
We should have been suffocated only that there was a perfect rush of cold air through the place, but moment by moment this was becoming hot and poisonous with the gases of combustion. The flames were rushing out of the grinding-shop windows beneath us, and the yard on one side, the dam on the other, were light as day.
In one glance over the fire and smoke I saw our wall covered with workmen and boys, some watching, some dropping over into the yard. While in a similar rapid glance on the other side I saw through the flame and smoke that on one side the dam bank was covered with spectators, on the other there were three men just climbing off a rough raft and descending towards the stream just below.
“Now,” said Uncle Jack, seizing one box, “I can do no more. Each of you take your lot and let’s go.”
“But where?—how?” I panted.
“Phew!”
Uncle Jack gave vent to a long whistle that was heard above the crackling wood, the roar of flames carried along by the wind, and the shouts and cries of the excited crowd in the yard.
“It’s worse than I thought,” said Uncle Jack. “We can’t get down. Keep cool, boys. We must save our papers. Here, there is less fire at that window than at either of the others—let’s throw the boxes out there. They’ll take care of them.”
We ran to the far corner window, but as we reached it a puff of flame and smoke curved in and drove us back.
It was so with every window towards the yard, and escape was entirely cut off.