The heat was so terrific and the fact that poor Ol’ Pop was unconscious
made Westy feel a little panic-stricken for the moment. He would try, he
thought, getting him down the stairs as gently as possible, if there was
yet time.
Pulling back the covers, Westy discovered to his further dismay that the
poor old fellow was bound hand and foot to the bed with heavy rope.
“Oh!” exclaimed Westy aloud, thankfully. “The Lord bless my penknife
to-night!”
He had a task to do this, for the rope was exceptionally tough and
strong. Finally when the last one released the helpless man, Westy tied
the wet towel around his head. Then he started in his struggle to remove
him, first out of bed and then into the hall.
Reaching the stairs, he saw in consternation that the fire had now taken
its toll of these and the whole lower floor also. Suddenly and almost
within two feet of them, the flames shot upward from the floor and Westy
stepped back quickly. The towel that covered his face was almost dry and
his hands and head felt blistered from this fresh onslaught in front of
them. Within a second, there was another roar and everything about them
in the hall burst into flame. Half dragging his heavy burden, he stepped
into the bedroom, which he had previously entered from outside. Just as
he slammed the door behind him, there was a terrible, almost deafening
roar again. With a terrific crash he could feel the impact of the
ceilings and floors giving way.
“Whew,” said Westy aloud by the door. “What a piece of luck!”
With another struggle he reached the window and, looking behind him, saw
the flames licking their way up the bedroom door. The sight of it made
his throat feel so parched that he felt it too was burning. He tried
then, to get Ol’ Pop out first, but it was no go. Then, just as he was
about to call for help, he saw Uncle Jeb climbing up on the shed and
Artie behind him.
No word was spoken between them, as they lifted the old man gently out
of the window. Artie and Uncle Jeb got down by the porch railing first
with waiting arms outstretched, Westy handed him into their care. As he
turned to slide down the pillar, he could see the darting flames leaping
out of the window behind him.
They carried the unconscious man a distance away from the intense heat
and, laying him down on the soft grass, tried to revive him. Uncle Jeb
had found a couple of pails and fetched some water from the spring which
had been the source of supply to the Inn. They were busy mopping his
face and moistening his lips with the cool water in their tireless
efforts to see some sign of hope on that pale countenance.
Westy looked toward Uncle Jeb sitting quietly there on the ground in the
near-dawn. He was gazing at his old friend and there were tears
trickling down that weather-beaten visage and his lips were quivering
visibly.
It was a sad-looking little company that the breaking day beheld.
Huddled on the ground, shivering in the gray chill of early morning,
they sat with anxious glances directed toward the still figure lying on
the ground blanketed with their coats. Westy and Artie could not
suppress the tears brimming in their eyes, from the emotion and pity
they felt for Uncle Jeb and the quiet form at their feet.
Almost about to give up hope, the sounds of natural breathing returned
in Ol’ Pop and they moved nearer joyously. Each taking a hand and
rubbing his wrists, they waited anxiously.
Opening his shrewd eyes, he raised his head weakly, but yet showing that
the ordeal wouldn’t have any further effect on his general health, which
was as hardy as any of his type.
He looked toward the smoldering embers, that were the only remnants left
of the little rustic Inn, standing just the day before in all its quaint
and native beauty. He shook his head sadly, then the dawn of a sudden
thought seemed to light in his mind.
“Wa-al, pardner!” he said with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “You
’n I hev lived ter be this age, ’n hed to git fooled fer the fust time
in our lives by a tenderfoot. Jes’ goes ter show yure never too old ter
git kicked!”
“What makes you say that?” Westy asked without being invited, and before
either Uncle Jeb or Artie had time to get their breath.
“Fust o’ all,” continued Pop, ignoring Westy’s question. Raising on his
elbow he shook his finger with determination. “How’d ye all git here and
git me out ’n the bargain?”
Uncle Jeb acted as spokesman and explained as quickly as possible of
Westy’s discovery in the sky. He omitted, whether intentionally or not
the two boys wondered, mentioning about the ghost.
“Yuh all lissen ter me, ’n I’ll tell yer somethin’, fer it don’t make a
bit o’ difference now, becuz it’s gone by this time anyhow.”
“Gone?” they all asked in a chorus.
“Shure ez yure a-sittin’ thar all o’ ye. My money ’s gone every pesky
cent. ’N if I hed my way, I’d like ter see thet rascally scoundrel hang
fer it. I’d never believed it o’ him!”
“Who?” they all asked.
“Ollie!”