Part 17 (2/2)

”Yus,” said Connie. ”Now, let's get to the winder.”

The children staggered there. The smoke was getting more dense; the room was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a minute, and then quickly drew it back.

”There's flames burstin' out o' the winders,” she said. ”I wish as the firemen 'ud come.”

The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in bra.s.s helmets: the brave firemen--members of the n.o.blest brigade in the world--were on the spot.

”It's hall right,” said Connie. ”They've come. Don't yer be a bit frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_Es_ father were one. Oh, there's no fear now that they've come!”

She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders.

Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within?

”No,” said a woman down in the crowd; ”hevery soul is out, even to my last biby--bless him!”

She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep.

But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life.

”Has any one come down from the top floor?” asked a tall young man. He had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of fireman.

Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her hand, were both distinctly seen.

”My G.o.d!” cried the firemen, ”there are children up there. Put the escape up at once--don't lose an instant--I am going up to them.”

”You can't; it's certain death,” said one or two. Several other voices were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.

”That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!” he said once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went--up and up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the window-ledge.

”Courage, courage!” he shouted to them. ”Hold tight--I'll be there in a minute!”

”The window is so hot!” gasped Connie.

”Think--think of the Voice,” whispered Ronald.

He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and his mother would meet him. But this was not to be.

In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured.

Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire.

People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up.

”What is your name?” he said to Connie.

”Connie,” she replied.

”Well, Connie,” he answered, ”it was the sight of your beautiful face in the window that gave me courage to save yer. Now, do you want to have a shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?'

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