"God, give me strength!"
And as the cry went up he hurled himself upon the beam with the fury of a madman.
Was it in answer to his prayer? The beam gave. It moved. It was so little, so slight; but it moved. And now, with every fibre braced, he attacked it in one final effort. It gave again. It jolted, it lifted, its rough end tearing the flesh of his chest under his clothing. It tottered for a moment. He struggled on, his bulging eyes and agonized gasping telling plainly of the strain. Inch by inch it gave before him. His muscles felt to be wrenching from the containing tissues, his breathing was spasmodic and whistling, his teeth were grinding together. It gave further, further. Suddenly, with a crash, it fell, the door was wrenched from its hinges, and he was free!
He dashed out into the wreck of his office. All was in absolute darkness. He stumbled his way over the debris which covered the floor, and finally reached the shattered remains of the doorway.
Now he was no longer in darkness. The milling floor was all too brilliantly lit by the leaping flames down at the "shoot" end of the No. 1 rollers. He waited for nothing, but ran toward the fire. Beyond, dimly outlined in the lurid glow, he could see the men. He saw Dawson and others struggling up the shoot with nozzle and hose, and he put his hands to his mouth and bellowed encouragement.
"Five hundred dollars if you get her under!" he cried.
If any spur were needed, that voice was sufficient. it was the voice of the master the lumber-jacks knew.
Dawson on the lead struggled up, and as he came Dave shouted again.
"Now, boy! Sling it hard! And pass the word to pump like hell!"
He reached out over the shoot. Dawson threw the nozzle. And as Dave caught it a stream of water belched from the spout.