"What is it?" whispered the younger boy, drawing closer to Garry in momentary fright at the sight of this spectral thing.
"Don't jump—it's me—Tom Slade! Here, take this rope, quick. I guess it isn't burned any. I meant to wet it, too," he gasped. "Is that tree solid? I can't seem to see. All right, quick! I can't do it. Make a loop and put it under his arms and let him down."
There was not a minute to spare, and no time for explanations or questions. Garry lowered the boy into the cut.
"Now you'll have to let me down, I'm afraid," said Tom. "My hands are funny and I can't—I can't go hand over hand."
"That's easy," said Garry.
But it was not so easy as it had been to lower the smaller boy. He had to encircle the tree twice with the rope to guard against a too rapid descent, and to smooth the precipice where the rope went over the edge to keep it from cutting. When Tom had been lowered into the cut, Garry himself went down hand over hand.
It was cool down there, but they could hear the wild flames raging above and many sparks descended and died on the already burned surface. The air blew in a strong, refreshing draught through the deep gully, and the three boys, hardly realizing their hair-breadth escape, seemed to be in a different world, or rather, in the cellar of the world above, which was being swept by that heartless roistering wind and fire.
Along through the cut they came, a dozen or more scarred and weary scouts, their clothing in tatters, anxious and breathing heavily. They had come by the long way around the edge of the woods and got into the cut where the hill was low and the gully shallow.
"Is anyone there?" a scout called, as they neared the point above which Hero Cabin had stood. They knew well enough that no one could be left alive above.