As he reached the next to the last step on the stair the charred step gave way beneath him, letting a leg through. By a mighty effort he clutched the banister and drew the leg back and a moment later found himself in the hall of the second story.
His lungs felt as though they were bursting, for he did not dare to draw a full breath. He felt as though he were one blister from head to heel.
But he kept on, summoning all his strength for one supreme effort. His head was reeling from the smoke fumes. If only he were sure of retaining consciousness for one minute longer!
Between him and the top of the back staircase the flames were mounting high. The floor sagged under him as he tottered through the hall. He shut his eyes, dashed through and swung himself around to descend the stairs.
As he did so his foot slipped and he almost dropped his burden. But he recovered himself and staggered on.
Choking, half-fainting, he reached the lower hall. A lightening of the murk showed him the direction of the door. He made one last effort and reached it, reached the blessed sunshine and the outer air and deposited his burden on the porch.
He had won through!
As in a daze he heard the cheers that rang out as he appeared and saw the figures that surrounded him, patted him, supported him, applauded him, beat out the fire that at various places was eating through his clothes, drenching him with water.
What he had done counted for nothing with him, viewed as an exploit. But he was thankful beyond words that he had saved a human life from one of the most terrible of deaths.
And while he is seeking to steady his dizzy head it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who Joe Matson was and what had been his adventures up to the time this story opens.