By this time the entire lower floor of the building was thick with smoke, and the flames were already beginning to show themselves in the vicinity of the back stairway. Frank’s eyes were swimming in tears, and it was all he could do to get his breath.
“I certainly can’t stand this any longer,” he thought, and gave the knob of the safe a final turn. Then the door came open and he pulled out the account books and some private papers in all haste. He had heard his father say that the safe was worn out, and in no condition to stand the test of a hot fire.
Scarcely able to stand, Frank felt his way toward the front door. The entire back and upper part of the building were now ablaze and he could plainly hear the crackling of the flames above him.
“Frank Hardy, where are you?” called a voice through the smoke.
Frank did not answer, but staggered toward the sound, for the smoke was so thick he could not see where he was going. Then, just as he felt he must drop, he received a dash of water in the face, thrown by a member of the local bucket brigade, for as yet the town boasted of nothing better than one engine and a company of men, who possessed sixty leather fire buckets.
The water did much toward reviving our hero and in a second more he almost fell through the front door and out on the stoop of the store. As he came into view a shout went up.
“There he is!”
“He has had a narrow escape!”
“Did he get burnt?”
“No, he is all right.”