“Take care of yourselves!”
Seizing the lever he gave a powerful lift, which considerably enlarged the hole. Then he saw the smoke rise as though by an escape-flue. There appeared in full view the three men, who had not let go their books and registers, stolidly awaiting deliverance or death. It was deliverance that came. A rope was lowered down the hole.
“Baudoin, fasten my uncle firmly under the arms with this rope. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Pull away, my men!”
The rope, hoisted by impatient arms, was drawn up, and Uncle Graff, black with dirt and smoke, trembling, and scarcely able to breathe, though perfectly happy, was pressed in Marcel’s arms, whilst tears flowed down their cheeks, though not a word was uttered. Cardez and Baudoin were hoisted up in the same way.
“By the way,” said Marcel, “is there anything else you want from the office? I will go down, if you like.”
“No!” exclaimed Uncle Graff; finding his voice; “we have all the books we want. That is sufficient! The place is insured, so there is nothing more to do.”
“Then we must beat a retreat at once,” exclaimed Marcel. “The smoke is getting denser here.”
Marcel, helping along his uncle, made his way to the drain-pipe. From the yard they were seen returning safe and sound. An immense shout arose, almost deafening the roar of the flames. They reached the works, where the firemen had already taken up their positions with the object of preserving the buildings still intact. Once in the yard Uncle Graff sank down on a bale of wool, turned pale, and almost fainted. He had come to the end of his strength.