“Dave,” cried Hiram sharply—“look, look, on the roof!”
“Yes—a girl,” responded Dave. “Why, Hiram, she is alone, and imprisoned up there by the fire!”
It was not difficult to understand the situation. The sixth floor of the building was probably the office of the warehouse. Such concerns hire but little help outside of the men who handle consignments for storage. The girl, probably a stenographer, must have been alone on the floor noted when the fire broke out.
She could not descend, for the five lower floors were all ablaze. Escape was cut off, except upwards. She had probably fled up the spiral staircases without coming to a break in the solid masonry, in the dark, and groping her way, and driven to frenzy by the pursuing smoke.
Now she was plainly visible to the two chums. She stood near the edge of the roof, waving her hands frantically. Below, the hook and ladder service attempted to reach her point of refuge, but they could not get above the eighth floor.
“Dave,” spoke Hiram in a muffled tone that trembled, “can’t we do something?”
Already the pilot of the Ariel had received the same mental suggestion. His eye took in all the chances. All that was chivalrous and humane in him came to the surface.
“There’s just one way, Hiram,” he said. “That is to make a volplane and a landing on the roof.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Hiram eagerly. “It’s a long narrow building, with plenty of room for a stop and a start.”
“You’re willing to risk it?”