Coughing, choking, trembling in a cold chill of dread, Dick continued frantically to hurl himself against the door.
"Can't you get out, Dick?"
"I'm awfully afraid I can't."
"Nor can I," screamed back Mrs. Dexter, though she was doing nothing besides beating a feeble tattoo with her soft fists against the panels of the door of her prison. "Jane! Jane!"
But the housekeeper still lay in a death-like faint above. As for Myra, she slept as only a tired small child can sleep.
"Oh, Dick, you must break down your door!" screamed the woman. "Myra—my child—upstairs. She'll be burned to death!"
"I'll keep on trying, ma'am, as long as I have any life left," Dick promised, chokingly.
Brave words! Young as he was, Dick Prescott was not of the kind to die a coward's death. Yet, in his own mind he was convinced that the door was too stout for him.
"You can't save us, can you?" called Mrs. Dexter's own choking tones finally.
"I'm still trying, ma'am."