bellowing orders, and the crowd again, blood hungry: "Death to the Gray Seal!"
There was a chance, just one—if the fire had no headway along the upper end of the landing—and if they had not thought to set a watch for him above! They—the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang—must have been driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame.
"Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie," he said quietly. "Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the left to the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this—we'll make the roof if we can. Now—are you ready?"
It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted her face to his, and held his face between her two hands—and then:
"I am ready, Jimmie."
He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward—and instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the flames leaping from the stair well.
And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another—and fell again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first landing above. There was one more—one more! If he could only rest here for a moment! Yes, that was it—rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet—and he was helping her on again, and up the next flight of stairs.
And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria—for they were climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing, and the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the pure, fresh air—and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from the street was
