“Dale! Ranny! Where are you?”
It was the scoutmaster’s voice, and Dale’s broke a little as he answered. In another moment Mr. Curtis was beside him, bending to lift the unconscious boy in his arms.
“Are you all right?” he asked tersely as he turned toward the windows.
“Yes.”
Scrambling to his feet, Dale stumbled after him. A crackling roar from behind the closed doors made him shiver. The windows were clear. Every one seemed to have left the hall save a single figure standing beside the nearest opening, one leg already over the sill.
“Quick, Wes!” snapped Mr. Curtis. “Get out on the ladder and take him. Fireman’s lift, you know.”
Becker obeyed swiftly, and, swinging the limp body over his shoulder, disappeared from view.
“Now, Dale,” ordered the scoutmaster. “You–”
The words were drowned in a crashing roar as the doors fell in. There was a sudden, blinding burst of flame, a wave of scorching heat that seemed to sear into Dale’s very soul. He flung up both hands before his eyes, and, as he did so, two arms grasped him about the body and fairly whirled him through the window to the ladder.
“Catch hold and slide!” commanded the scoutmaster. “Hustle!”