“My child! my child—save her!”
All eyes were fastened upon a window up in the third story where the face of a flaxen-haired little girl appeared—blanched with fear, and yet curious to see what was going on.
The ladder wagon had not arrived, and the flames were devouring the frail tenement.
Surely the child was lost—no one could save her there. It was an awful period of suspense to the thousands who looked on. Lillian and her sister held their breath and leaned on Joe for support.
Then the child vanished.
“Heavens! she has gone—the floor has probably fallen in,” gasped Joe. “No, no, look! there is a man at the window—he has seized the child and is tying her to himself. Look! he climbs out of the windows. Ugh! if he loses his grip both will be dashed to pieces.”
They gaze as if fascinated, both of the gentle ladies praying for the daring man’s success.
He swings himself boldly along the ledge—none but a quick-witted man could have seen the chance that existed, but he had.
Reaching a certain spot he took hold of the pipe that ran down the building—it must have burned his hands, but he lowered himself by it to the floor below.
Flames were beneath, but he had arranged his plan—a tall telegraph pole slanted in here and a dexterous man could leap in among its numerous arms—he coolly calculated his chances and sprang out.