“You mean, we can’t get out—we’ve got to burn?”
Jack was staring at a spot in the center of the floor. There was a metal ring sunk in the floor, and beyond it were two hinges—the roothouse trap-door.
He sprawled over and dug the ring loose. With a heave he opened the trap, and the odor of musty old vegetables filled the room. An old ladder led down to the bottom. June went down first. There was more shooting, but they could not hear the bullets now.
Jack left the trap open to give them a little light. The roothouse was about six feet deep and of about the width of the kitchen. It was cool down there, and no smoke penetrated. They took deep breaths to rid their lungs of the smoke.
On one side was an accumulation of old boxes and barrels. Jack lighted a match and almost shouted with joy. Behind those old boxes and barrels was a stairway which led to an outside roothouse door.
He flung the boxes aside, clearing the disused stairway, a prayer in his heart that the door might not be nailed down. They could hear the snapping of the flames now, the hoarse shouts of men, the crackle of guns.
Jack put his shoulder against the old slanting door and lifted enough to find that it was not fastened down.
“We’ll beat ’em yet, June,” he panted. “The fire seems to be mostly at the front of the house yet. We can stay here for a few minutes.”
June was swaying sidewise, and before Jack could spring to her assistance she had fainted. He lifted her up and held her in his arms. In falling she had struck her head against the corner of a box, cutting it badly.
He tore the muffler from around his neck and bound it around her head. Then he picked her up in his arms and staggered up the old steps, where he hunched in as low as possible, bracing his right shoulder against the door.