Bending low, his sleeve over his mouth, Kenneth rushed the next flight. Grafton was at his heels. At the top Kenneth crouched against the last step and squinted painfully down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Whipple's room and the flames. The heat was stifling and the smoke rolled toward them in great red waves. Grafton, choking, coughing, crouched at Kenneth's side.
"We can't reach him," he muttered. "The fire has cut him off."
It seemed true. Mr. Whipple's room was at the far end and between his door and the stairway the flames were rioting wildly, licking up the woodwork and playing over the lathes from which the plaster was crumbling away. Kenneth's heart sank and for an instant he thought he was going to faint. Everything grew black before him and his head settled down on his outstretched arm. Then Grafton was shaking him by the shoulder and his senses returned.
"Come on!" cried Grafton. "Let's get out of this while we can! We'll be burned alive in a minute!" There was panic in his voice and he tugged nervously at Kenneth's arm.
At that moment a great expanse of plaster fell from the ceiling some thirty feet away and the flames glared luridly through the corridor, making everything for a brief moment as light as day. From below came calls, but Kenneth did not hear them.
"Look!" he cried, seizing Grafton's arm. "On the floor! Do you see?"
"Yes," shouted Grafton. "It's Mr. Whipple! Can we get him?"
"I'm going to try," was the calm reply. "Will you come with me?"
For a moment the two boys looked into each other's eyes, squinting painfully in the acrid smoke. The flames crackled and roared in their ears. The strained, terror-stricken look passed from Grafton's face. His eyes lighted and he even smiled a little.
"Come on," he said simply.