Sobbing now, his breath coming in great gasps, Allen rushed back to the bed, picked up one of the figures, and staggered with it back to the window. They saw him standing there; and a great cheer went up from the spectators.
Gathering all that wonderful reserve strength that comes to every one in time of greatest need, he swung his burden far out from the window—then dropped it.
Allen paused for a moment, steadying hand on the windowsill, then gathered himself for the last great effort. The bed was invisible now, the room an inferno—he had to fight every step of the way back to the bed. Then he found what he sought, and fought the slow fight back to the window.
But his strength was going—going—his arms were iron weights—the room was going black. With a great effort he fought off the faintness. Then he saw a great, helmeted head peering in at him from the window.
"Give her to me, son," said a hearty voice; then, it seemed to Allen miraculously, he was relieved of his burden. Swaying, dizzy, he clung to the windowsill to keep himself erect.
"Now I guess I can die," he heard himself saying, through an eternity of space.
"You just hold tight, son," said the hearty voice, as its owner carefully lowered himself and the poor little unconscious figure down the ladder. "I'll be back for you in jig time."
But it was an eternity while Allen waited, every nerve tense in the fight for consciousness, red hot irons searing his flesh, that roaring hades of flames creeping closer, closer——
"Your turn, son!"
Dimly he saw the helmeted head through a haze of smoke and tried to speak—but no sound came from between his cracked, parched lips. He swayed. A brawny arm gripped him like a vise.