When they emerged into the glare of the south side Dennis gave the child to its mother and said, “Madam, your only chance is to escape in that direction,” pointing northwest.
He then tried to make his way to the hotel where Professor and Mrs. Leonard were staying, but it was in the midst of an unapproachable sea of fire. If they had not escaped some little time before, they had already perished. He then tried to make his way to the windward toward his own room. His two thousand dollars and all his possessions were there, and the instinct of self-preservation caused him to think it was time to look after his own. But progress was now very difficult. The streets were choked by drays, carriages, furniture, trunks, and every degree and condition of humanity. Besides, his steps were often stayed by thrilling scenes and the need of a helping hand. In order to make his way faster he took a street nearer the fire, from which the people had mostly been driven. As he was hurrying along with his hat drawn over his eyes to avoid the sparks that were driven about like fiery hail, he suddenly heard a piercing shriek. Looking up he saw the figure of a woman at the third story window of a fine mansion that was already burning, though not so rapidly as those in the direct line of the fire. He with a number of others stopped at the sound.
“Who will volunteer with me to save that woman?” cried he.
“Wal, stranger, you can reckon on this old stager for one,” answered a familiar voice.
Dennis turned and recognized his old friend, the Good Samaritan.
“Why, Cronk,” he cried, “don’t you know me? Don’t you remember the young man you saved from starving by suggesting the snow-shovel business?”
“Hello! my young colt. How are you? give us yer hand. But come, don’t let’s stop to talk about snow in this hell of a place with that young filly whinnying up there.”
“Right!” cried Dennis. “Let us find a ladder and rope; quick—”
At a paint-shop around the corner a ladder was found that reached to the second story, and someone procured a rope.
“A thousand dollars,” cried another familiar voice, “to the man who saves that woman!”
Looking round, Dennis saw the burly form of Mr. Brown, the brewer, his features distorted by agony and fear; then glancing up he discovered in the red glare upon her face that the woman was no other than his daughter. She had come to spend the night with a friend, and, being a sound sleeper, had not escaped with the family.
“Who wants yer thousand dollars?” replied Bill Cronk’s gruff voice. “D’ye s’pose we’d hang out here over the bottomless pit for any such trifle as that? We want to save the gal.”
Before Cronk had ended his characteristic speech, Dennis was halfway up the ladder. He entered the second story, only to be driven back by fire and smoke.
“A pole of some kind!” he cried.
The thills of a broken-down buggy supplied this, but the flames had already reached Miss Brown. Being a girl of a good deal of nerve and physical courage, however, she tore off her outer clothing with her own hands. Dennis now passed her the rope on the end of the buggy-thill and told her to fasten it to something in the room that would support her weight, and lower herself to the second story. She fastened it, but did not seem to know how to lower herself. Dennis tried the rope, found it would sustain his weight; then, bringing into use an art learned in his college gymnasium, he overhanded rapidly till he stood at Miss Brown’s side. Drawing up the rope he fastened her to it and lowered her to the ladder, where Bill Cronk caught her, and in a moment more she was in her father’s arms, who at once shielded her from exposure with his overcoat. Dennis followed the rope down, and had hardly got away before the building fell in.
“Is not this Mr. Fleet?” asked Miss Brown.
“Yes.”
“How can we ever repay you?”
“By learning to respect honest men, even though they are not rich, Miss Brown.”
“Did you know who it was when you saved me?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Fleet, I sincerely ask your pardon.”
But before Dennis could reply they were compelled to fly for their lives.
Mr. Brown shouted as he ran, “Call at the house or place of business of Thomas Brown, and the money will be ready.”
But Thomas Brown would have found it hard work to rake a thousand dollars out of the ashes of either place the following day. The riches in which he trusted had taken wings.
Cronk and Dennis kept together for a short distance, and the latter saw that his friend had been drinking. Their steps led them near a large liquor-store which a party of men and boys were sacking. One of these, half intoxicated, handed Bill a bottle of whiskey, but as the drover was lifting it to his lips Dennis struck it to the ground. Cronk was in a rage instantly.
“What the ⸻ did you do that for?” he growled.
“I would do that and more too to save your life. If you get drunk tonight you are a lost man,” answered Dennis, earnestly.
“Who’s a-goin’ ter get drunk, I’d like ter know? You feel yer oats too much tonight. No man or horse can kick over the traces with me;” and he went off in the unreasoning anger of a half-drunken man. But he carried all his generous impulses with him, for a few minutes after, seeing a man lying in a most dangerous position, he ran up and shook him, crying, “I say, stranger, get up, or yer ribs will soon be roasted.”
“Lemme ’lone,” was the maudlin answer. “I’ve had drink ’nuff. ’Tain’t mornin’ yet.”
“Hi, there!” cried a warning voice, and Cronk started back just in time to escape a blazing wall that fell across the street. The
