"Father," he said, in a low tone that none the less rang with determination, "last year I didn't dare to disobey you, because I was afraid, but now—I'm not a bit afraid of you."
Mr. Hegan leaned quickly forward, and laid his hand on his boy's shoulder with a fatherly touch and an anxiety in his eyes that made Tom's heart beat high.
"I must try it, father," he said, gently, answering the questioning look. "There isn't a man here who can stand the gases as I can. I'm used to them."
Mr. Hegan bowed his head. He tried to reply quietly, but his voice broke. "You are a man," he said; "your own master. I haven't the right to say no if your courage says yes. God go with you!" He held out his hand, but turned away as if he could not see the boy's first step toward danger.
Tom grasped the hand, but did not move. "Father!" he cried, in a gasp. "Look! It is Joan!"
JOAN WAS DRAGGING HER LITHE BODY ALONG THE IRON BEAM.
Mr. Hegan turned. Tom was pointing up, not at the endangered men, but to a spot on which every eye was now fixed, and to which all were pointing in turn. Further along the building and close under the roof was a small opening, left for some temporary purpose, and through this opening, by which no man could have entered, appeared the slight shoulders and the dark head they all recognized. With strong motions of her slender arms, Joan was dragging her lithe body into the building, until she lay at last flattened on the wide iron beam that separated wall from roof. From there she began to work her way along the beam towards the girder where the men still hung. Her progress, like that of a measuring-worm, was slow but sure. A light rope was coiled round and round her waist.
"She will tie them to the girders," shouted Tom. "Take courage, father; she can stand the gases as I can. Who goes up with me?"