“The shed is burning!” he shouted below. “Save what is in it!”
A few people hurried away to pull out the carts.
And meanwhile the column of water hissed over the roof, made its way to the rafters and splashed over the bricks. Little white clouds rose before him and disappeared, to reappear again in other places.
Then suddenly “Black Susy” came to his mind. She was standing in the farthest corner of the shed, buried among old rubbish.
A pang shot through his breast. Shall she perish now as well—she, on whom his heart had ever placed its hopes?
“Save the locomobile!” he shouted down.
But no one understood him.
The longing to bring help to “Black Susy” seized upon him so powerfully that for a moment he felt he must even sacrifice the house.
“Send somebody to replace me,” he called down to the crowd of people, who for the greater part stood idly gaping.
A stalwart mason from the village came climbing up, took off the slates, and so made himself a path up to the ridge of the roof. Paul gave the hose to him and glided down, wondering inwardly that he broke neither arms nor legs.