He almost gave up hope. He decided that Casson and he must perish there together. Then his groping fingers touched something that moved and groaned.
Could he get Casson outside the hut before the flimsy walls of it collapsed, burying both of them in the burning debris?
Even as Bomba asked himself the question, he gathered the wasted form of Casson in his strong young arms.
Choking, blinded, staggering, he stumbled with his burden in the direction he thought the doorway would be. He came in violent contact with a wall, and was almost flung down with his helpless burden.
His lungs fairly begging for a breath of air, eyes smarting agonizingly with smoke, he regained his balance and struggled on.
He pressed Casson’s nose and mouth close against the cloth that covered his own and groped forward until at last he found the doorway of the hut. A moment’s pause, a gathering of forces, then a mad plunge through the devouring flame into the open air beyond.
Bomba laid Casson on the ground at a safe distance from the blazing structure, and with a swift motion tore the cloth from his own nose and mouth. This, which had begun to scorch from the frightful heat, he flung to the ground and trampled upon with his sandaled feet.
Then he passed a hand over his smarting, tear-filled eyes, and bent to examine Casson.
The old naturalist was conscious, and looked up at the boy with a pleading look.
“I’m all right,” he panted, his breath coming painfully. “Never mind me. Save the hut.”