"Fourth floor, rear?" he shouted above the noise of his fire fighting apparatus. "Thought everybody in that place would be in the shelters. How many, do you figure? Can't spare any of my boys, here, so I'll have to go it alone."
"Don't know how many!" Dave shouted back. "But you're not tackling it alone. We're coming with you. Let's go."
The fire lieutenant grinned.
"The good old R.A.F. every time!" he cried. "Right-o! But wait a bit. No sense risking things bashing you on the head, you know."
The fire lieutenant jumped over to his car in the street and pulled out a couple of tin helmets. He tossed them to the boys.
"Put those on!" he shouted. "Right-o! Fourth floor, rear, eh?"
Sticking close to the fire lieutenant's heels, the two boys followed him into the burning building. It was like rushing through the open door of a furnace, and for a second or so the heat seemed almost to knock them off balance. Thick smoke swirled about them like a fog, and the smell of things burning filled their noses and mouths and made them choke and gag for breath.
As though the fire lieutenant had lived in the building all his life, he went straight to the stairs completely hidden by the smoke, and started up. He paused for a second, half turned and stretched out one hand to Dave.
"Give me your hand," he said. "And you take your pal's hand. That way we'll stick together and not get lost. Right you are, now. Up we go!"
There was less smoke on the second floor of the building, and still less on the third. On the third floor, however, they ran straight into trouble. The stair wall had been knocked loose by the exploding bombs, and the stairs were covered by a ton or so of split beams, plaster, brick, and other kinds of debris. The Fire Lieutenant stared at it with a scowl.