Jeffreys caught him in his arms in a moment, and only just in time. He
had literally to wade through flame to the door; and when he reached the
stairs outside, the dense smoke, reddening every instant, burst upon him
well-nigh overwhelmingly.
How he struggled down that awful flight with his burden he knew not.
More than once he stumbled; and once a shower of fallen embers all but
stunned him. It was all done in a minute.
Those who watched without marvelled how soon he returned; and when they
perceived that he bore in his arms a living creature, even Driver's
Court swayed back to let him pass, and cheered him. Happily a cry of
"Engines!" at the other end of the court diverted the crowd still
further, and enabled him to stagger forward clear of danger.
"Drop him, he's a dead 'un!" shouted some one who stopped a moment to
peer into the face of the senseless lad.
"I'll give you a shilling to help me with him out of this," said
Jeffreys.
It was a shilling well spent. Unaided he could never have done it, but
with the sturdy gladiator to clear the way he was able at last to reach
the comparative seclusion of Storr Alley. The offer of another shilling
prevailed on the man to carry the lad to the attic.
Then for the first time left to himself, he looked in the face of this
unexpected guest. And as he did so the room seemed to swim round him.
He forgot where he was or what he was. He looked down on an upturned
face, but one not blackened with smoke. It was white and livid, with
green grass for a background--and the roar he heard was no longer the
distant yell of a panic-stricken mob, but boys' voices--voices shouting
at himself! Yes, for the last time that vision rose before him. Then
with a mighty effort he shook off the dream and looked once more in the
face of the boy who lay there on the floor of the Storr Alley garret.
And as he did so young Forrester slowly opened his eyes.