Frank Armstrong at Queens

by Matthew M. Colton

The Wee One begged piteously for help, and then, turning, looked into the room he had just left. Then he turned his face to the ground, and made a movement as if to jump.

"Don't jump, don't jump, don't jump!" yelled the crowd in chorus. "Here's a rope for you." Mr. Parks now appeared with a coil of stout rope and threw it with all his might at the window. It didn't quite carry up to it. Frantically he snatched it up again and threw. This time the unwinding end dropped across the window sill, hung a moment and slipped back before Patterson could grasp it. Mr. Parks tried again, but this time failed to get the rope near the window.

"Let me have it," said a calm voice at his elbow. "Let me try." It was David. All looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "I can't throw it, I'll carry it."

"How?"

David pointed to the great woodbine vine which, with its stout stem, crept over the whole end of the building. It had been planted many years before. Unmolested its tendrils had shot their way into the crevices between the bricks, making a kind of lattice work. "There's a chance," he said, "and I'll try. It's the only way to save him. Quick, tie the rope around me and help me to the wall."

Willing fingers knotted the rope around his waist, and bore him to the wall, the crutches dropping from his hands. They pushed him up the wall as far as they could, and then let go. Up that mat of woodbine vine David went like a monkey, the tail of rope dangling out behind. Where the growth was large he seemed to have no difficulty, but as he advanced there was less grip for his hands, and once he stopped ten feet below the window where the Wee One was hanging.

"He can't make it, he can't make it," moaned the crowd.

But the little hero is only momentarily balked. Holding his weight with one hand, he tears loose a section of the vine to get a better grip, drives his bleeding fingers in between the vine and the bricks, and goes on. Now he is only a few feet below the ledge. Now he has reached it, thrown a hand over it, and climbed onto it. The crowd below are as still as death, but David works with a coolness worthy of the trained fireman. They can even see him smile a little at the Wee One, evidently encouraging him. Then he has slipped into the room, made a hitch securely to the bed leg, which is near the window, and handed the Wee One the rope.

There is not a whisper as the Wee One takes it, gets a coil of the rope around his arm and another around his leg, and begins to slide. Below someone is holding the rope out from the wall so he will not tear himself on the bricks and vines, and almost before it is realized he is standing on the ground beside them, safe and sound, excepting a few bruises where he came in too close contact with the wall.

And now over the window ledge slides David. He is at home on a rope, thanks to his practice in the gymnasium, and it is but a small trick for him to slip down its length. And what a cheer bursts from the crowd as he is grasped in the arms of his friends! He is carried bodily, like a baby, by half a dozen fellows to one of the Senior apartments over in Honeywell Hall, where the Wee One has already been taken, and the school, forgetting the fire in the wonderful act of bravery, follows at his heels, shouting his name.