Mr. Harlow had been an athlete in his day. In spite of his large, heavily built frame, he was still quick of motion, sure of foot, keen of eye. He took off his coat and threw it on the ground, and then in some way he was climbing up the barn.
He disappeared, then reappeared again inside. Swinging himself up on a blackened rafter, he held with one hand to a support above, and with the other lifted one half-insensible child from her perch, and swung her over into the waiting grasp of a fireman below, for the engine had come up, and the field was black with the whole swarming village population, gathering larger and larger forces each minute.
Six times did Mr. Harlow’s strong arm plunge forward and encircle a helpless, drooping little form in the sight of the field of breathless spectators.
As the last one was safely handed over, a sharp breath of relief came from the crowd. Then there was a leaping flame, and a cloud of smoke surged up and hid him from view.
“The doctor says he’ll be all right soon. Really, mother, we’re not keeping anything from you.”
Betty, with high-keyed voice, flaming cheeks and wild eyes, was under the impression that she was pacifically calm of demeanour. She had been taken home in a friend’s buggy.
“There’s not the least cause for worry. He’s only suffocated a little, you know, from the smoke, and of course his hands are burned a little, and his feet; and he’s not quite conscious yet, but he’s all right. I was to tell you that particularly, but you’re always so nervous! They’ll have him home here soon. Herbert’s with him, and Syl is bringing his coat. And—O mother!”
Betty fell into Mrs. Harlow’s arms, and they wept together.