“Thunder and lightning, what ails him? I must save him if I can,” thought Kirke, hastily making fast the windlass by tying down the handle.
Never pausing to consider the risk he was taking, he grasped the dangling rope and slid down upon it, hand over hand, toward the burning fuse. Should he be in season to smother it? Ah, that was the question.
When he sprang from the end of the rope to a foothold upon the rock beside Sing Wung, the advancing flame was scarcely a finger’s length from the buried powder. Even then help might be too late.
With his heart in his throat, the lad dashed forward and planted his foot upon the spark. Oh, joy! it was soon extinguished! He had saved the life of Sing Wung!
Little cared Kirke at that moment for dizzy head or blistered hands. Even his late hatred of the suspected Chinaman was quite over-weighed by the intense satisfaction of having been the means of his rescue.
How Sing Wung, speedily rallying from his nervous shock, deftly spliced the severed rope; and how he and his deliverer, one after the other, were lifted from their gloomy quarters, will always remain to Kirke Rowe a blurred memory, for he had hardly returned to the sunlight before he fainted.
A dash of cold water restored him to consciousness, and he opened his eyes to find himself extended full length upon the lawn, and Mr. Keith and Paul bending anxiously over him. There were tears in both pairs of eyes, and Mr. Keith was saying in broken tones,—
“God bless the noble boy!”
And what more did Kirke see? What was that white object nestling lovingly against his breast, now lapping his cold cheek, now barking for joy? Was it,—he could hardly believe his own senses,—yes, surely, that was Shot, his dear lamented terrier!
“Why, Shot, you blessed good little dog, where have you been?” he exclaimed, starting up, all alive with happiness. “Why, Shot, where have you been?”