Bill’s right hand slipped. For an instant he thought he was gone but he managed to gain a hold with his lacerated left. Deborah hung like a millstone about his neck. As he felt for the rod with his toes, her legs and thighs slipped over his right shoulder, pinning that arm to his side, and bringing the full weight of her body on the left side of his neck and head. Bill found himself in the terrible predicament of being totally unable to move—either upward or down. Searing pain shot through his left hand—his head reeled. In one more second he must drop—
“Let go, lad—” called Mr. Dixon’s voice from below. “You’re almost down.”
Strong arms caught him about the knees. He released his grip, as they let him down. Then Deborah’s now unbearable weight was taken from his shoulders. Somebody far away cried—“Good Lord! the boy’s hands are in ribbons!” And Bill, for the first time in his life, fainted.
* * * * * * * *
Bang! Crash!
He felt himself hurtling through space to light head first on something fairly soft, but with a jar that almost loosened his front teeth.
“Don’t kick—that’s my face—or was,” growled a deep voice.
Bill was pushed violently to one side. He opened his eyes and sat up, feeling as though he had been pounded with a sledge-hammer.
“The other way—” said the same deep voice. “The wind of the thing sent us heels over teakettle.”
Bill turned his head slowly and painfully. Beside him sat a large and husky individual in the dark uniform of the Connecticut State Police. Possibly two hundred yards away, a huge mass of debris was burning. Over it hung a heavy cloud of jet black smoke.