THE RIOT WEDGE
For a long moment Bob Gibson stood like one petrified. He thought of
the crowd, of the narrow, twisted stairs, of panic. What ought he do?
What was there possible for him to do? He tried to remember what the
scout book said about fires and panics, but his brain seemed numb. Before
it had cleared there came a choking cry from the other side, and Bennie
Rhead, the youngest scout in the troop, slipped out of the line, and
before any one could stop him, had jerked open the door to let in a
rolling cloud of dense black smoke.
Like a flash Wesley Becker leaped after him, dragged him back, and
slammed the door; but the damage was done. There was a long, gasping,
concerted sigh, as of hundreds of people catching their breath in unison;
in a second more the hall resounded with that cry which chills the
blood and sends shivers chasing down the spine. To Gibson, standing
pale and frightened, it seemed as if that whole close-packed assemblage
surged up like some awful monster and rushed toward him, a bedlam of
shrill sound; while out of doors the wild clamor of the fire-alarm
suddenly burst forth to add horror to the scene.
Shaking and terrified, Bob nevertheless stood motionless, partly because
he did not know what else to do, but mainly because the fellows on
either side of him had not stirred. He dug his teeth into his under lip
to keep back a frightened whimper, and then of a sudden the clear,
high voice of Mr. Curtis rang out above the deafening din and turmoil:
"Troop Five prepare to form double riot wedge! One!"
Instinctively Bob leaped two paces forward and a little to the right.
In like fashion the others darted to their positions with the swift
precision of machines. Not a scout failed. Even Bennie Rhead, frightened
as he was, made no mistake, and in a trice the wedge was complete.
"Two!" shouted the scoutmaster.
Down swung the staves, interlocking in a double barrier of stout hickory
backed by equally sturdy muscle. The scoutmaster had barely time to place
himself at the apex of the wedge before the mob struck it.
"Hold fast, boys!" he cried. "Brace your feet and don't let them
break the line!" He flung up both arms in the faces of the maddened
throng. "Stop!" he shouted. "You can't get out this way. The stairs
are impassable. Stop crowding! There's no danger if you keep your
heads. The fire-escapes are in good order. The windows--"
The rest was choked off by the crushing weight of the mob dashing
against the barrier. Even in the second row Bob felt the double line
shake and give under the strain, and instinctively he dropped a shoulder
against the pressure and spread out his legs to brace himself. MacIlvaine
noticed what he was doing, and shouted to the others to follow Bob's
example; and presently the line steadied and held. Then a shrill whistle
cut through the clamor, stilling it a little and making it possible
to hear the stentorian voice of Captain Chalmers from somewhere in
the rear of the crowd.
"You can't get out by the stairs! There are fire-escapes at both front
and rear. Ladders will soon be raised to the other windows. There's no
danger if you only keep your heads. Stop crowding and form in line at the
windows. Scouts will see that these lines are kept and that the women
and children are taken out first."
[Illustration: "Hold fast, boys!" he cried. "Brace your feet and don't
let them break the line!"]
An inarticulate murmur followed his words, but the wild din of a moment
before was not resumed. In a moment, too, the pressure of bodies against
the double line of scouts about the door began to relax as those in the
rear made haste to seek other ways of escape. Presently it had ceased
entirely, and as the boys straightened up from their cramped positions
Mr. Curtis turned to face them.
"I'm proud of you, fellows," he said in a low, quick tone. "That was
corking! Steady, now, for a minute or two longer."
That minute or two seemed the longest space of time Bob Gibson had ever
known. Now that the stress and strain of strenuous action was removed he
had time to think, to wonder--to be afraid. His mother and father were
both here; so was Ted and little Flossie. Had they been in that awful
crush? he wondered, as his anxious gaze flashed from one to another of
the scurrying groups. Had they been hurt? The smoke was pouring more
thickly into the hall, stinging his eyes and catching his throat in a
choking sort of grip. Through the open windows came the clash and clang
of engines, the muffled roar of excited crowds gathering below. Bob
could see nothing of his mother or the children, and a dry sob came
from his tight lips.
"'Tention!" called the scoutmaster, sharply. "We'll take the two windows
at this side of the front, fellows. Line up on either side of them, and
keep the crowd in order. Women and children first, remember. Left face!
March!"
Bob pivoted mechanically and moved forward in step with MacIlvaine.
Through the swirling smoke he could see that the other troops had
gathered at different windows and were keeping the crowd in line,
helping the women and small children through to the fire-escapes or out
to the ladders which had just been raised. By this time the men, for the
most part, had recovered from their panic and were helping in the
work. Suddenly the boy caught sight of his mother in the line of people
close by the next window. She was carrying Flossie, and his father had
Ted over one shoulder. They both looked so calm and brave that Bob's
spine stiffened, and when he caught his mother's eye a moment later he
was able to smile and wave his hand almost as carelessly as if his
heart wasn't pounding unevenly at the sudden realization that not a
scout could stir until every one else was out of the building.
It wasn't a conscious longing for any one else's place. It was blind
fear, pure and simple; and though he tried to crush it down by thinking
of the people he was helping, it persisted and grew stronger, just as the
smoke grew steadily denser and more choking, and the crackle of flames
seemed to come from behind the closed doors with ominous distinctness.
When the electric lights suddenly went out leaving only the two oil
side-lamps burning dimly, it was all he could do to keep from crying out
with terror. Indeed, he instinctively took a quick step out of line
toward the window, but Mr. Curtis's cool voice halted him:
"Steady, Bob. Not quite yet."
The boy's fingers dug into his palms and he stepped quickly back into
his place, a flush of shame mantling his cheeks. Had any of the other
fellows noticed? he wondered. His questioning glance swept along the
line and was suddenly arrested by the face of Dale Tompkins, who stood
a little beyond.
Dale was not looking at him; on the contrary, he was staring back into
the murky gloom of the big room with an expression of such desperate
anxiety and fear that Gibson's heart leaped, and instinctively he turned
his head to see what new peril threatened. When he glanced back, after a
scrutiny that revealed nothing unexpected, Tompkins had disappeared.
"He's gone!" gasped the boy, his surprise mingled with a touch of envy.
"He's cut out and got away!"
But Dale had not run away. At that very moment, instead of flying
panic-stricken to a window, as Bob supposed, he was groping his way
through the darkness toward the farther end of the smoke-filled hall. As
he passed behind the line of scouts and pushed on through the thinning
throng of frightened people, fear filled his soul and brought a tortured
look into his smarting eyes--that fear for another which is often so
much more gripping than the fear for self.
Ages ago, it seemed to the anxious boy, Ranny Phelps had disappeared in
this same direction and had not returned. Dale had caught a disjointed
word or two about water-buckets, but where they were or to what use Ranny
meant to put them he did not know. With growing alarm he had watched
and waited, and then, unable to stand the suspense another instant, he
slipped out of the line and went to seek his friend.
As he passed the double doors the smoke seemed to thicken, causing him
to choke and sputter. Where was it coming from, he wondered dazedly. It
was as if great volumes were pouring freely into the hall, yet the doors
to the corridor had been closed from the first.
He stumbled over a chair and nearly fell. Recovering, his outstretched
hands struck the wall, and he began to feel his way along it. Presently
his fingers gripped the edge of a door-casing, and he staggered back as
a fresh burst of suffocating fumes caught his lungs with a smothering
clutch.
For an instant he stood there reeling. Then in a flash he remembered the
coat-room, remembered the narrow pair of stairs leading down from one
corner with a row of red fire-buckets on a bench beside it. These were
the buckets Ranny had come for. The door to the stairs was--open!
He caught his breath with a dry sob and plunged into the pitchy darkness
of the smaller room. Two steps he took--three. Then his foot struck
against something, and he fell forward over a body stretched out on
the floor, his out-thrust arms reaching beyond it.
For a moment he thought it was all over. His senses were swimming in
the clouds of deadly smoke pouring up from below, and it took an
appreciable second or two to realize that the thing one hand clutched
instinctively was the edge of an open door. Almost as instinctively he
summoned all his strength and flung it to. The resulting slam came as
something indistinct and far away. He wondered if he were losing
consciousness, and in the same breath his jaw squared with the stubborn
determination that he would not--he must not! As he reached up to tear
the wide handkerchief from about his neck his fingers brushed the
silver cross pinned to his left breast, and the touch seemed to give
him fresh courage.
With feverish haste he felt for Ranny's wrists, knotted the neckerchief
about them, and, drawing them over his head, began to crawl toward the
door. Too late he remembered the water in the buckets and wished he had
thought to dip a handkerchief in that to breathe through. Doubtless it
was that very idea which had brought Ranny himself here. But he did not
dare turn back, and after all, now that the stair door was closed, the
smoke did not seem quite so dense, especially down here on the floor.
He reached the door and crawled through, dragging his helpless burden
with him. Through the smoke the farther windows were vaguely outlined
against a flickering, reddish background. A brighter line of fire marked
the crack beneath the double doors. Under his body, too, the floor felt
hot, and he could sense a queer, uneven pulsation as if the boards were
moving. What if the flames should burst through before they could get
away? What if--
"Dale! Ranny! Where are you?"
It was the scoutmaster's voice, and Dale's broke a little as he answered.
In another moment Mr. Curtis was beside him, bending to lift the
unconscious boy in his arms.
"Are you all right?" he asked tersely as he turned toward the windows.
"Yes."
Scrambling to his feet, Dale stumbled after him. A crackling roar from
behind the closed doors made him shiver. The windows were clear. Every
one seemed to have left the hall save a single figure standing beside
the nearest opening, one leg already over the sill.
"Quick, Wes!" snapped Mr. Curtis. "Get out on the ladder and take him.
Fireman's lift, you know."
Becker obeyed swiftly, and, swinging the limp body over his shoulder,
disappeared from view.
"Now, Dale," ordered the scoutmaster. "You--"
The words were drowned in a crashing roar as the doors fell in. There
was a sudden, blinding burst of flame, a wave of scorching heat that
seemed to sear into Dale's very soul. He flung up both hands before his
eyes, and, as he did so, two arms grasped him about the body and fairly
whirled him through the window to the ladder.
"Catch hold and slide!" commanded the scoutmaster. "Hustle!"
Mechanically, as he had done a score of times in their fire-drills
from the roof of Mr. Curtis' barn, Dale curled arms and legs about the
ladder sides, shut his eyes, and slid. Part way down a blast of heat
struck his face; then hands caught him, easing the descent, and he found
himself on the ground, with firemen all around and the cool spray from
one of the big, brass-nozzled hoses drifting across him. He had scarcely
time to step away from the ladder when Mr. Curtis, with hair singed
and clothes smoking, shot out of the flame-tinged smoke and came down
with a rush, while from the anxious crowd there burst a loud cheer
of relief and laxing tension.
Dale blinked and drew the clean air into his lungs with long, uneven
breaths. Then the grimy face of Court Parker popped up suddenly before
him.
"Where's Wes, and--and Ranny?" demanded Tompkins sharply.
"Over there."
Dale pushed his way across the street and up to the edge of a circle
that some of the scouts had formed about a small group on the farther
sidewalk. This opened to let him through, and as he stood looking down
on the handsome, blackened, pallid face of the boy Becker and MacIlvaine
were working over, something seemed to grip his throat and squeeze it
tight.
"Is he--" he stammered, "will he--"
Becker glanced up and nodded reassuringly. "He's coming round all right.
He's pretty well done up, that's all."
Under the shadowy tangle of disordered hair Ranny's lids suddenly lifted,
and the blue eyes looked straight up into Dale's face. For a second
there was absolutely no expression in them. Then something flickered
into the glance that made Dale's heart leap and sent the blood tingling
to the roots of his hair. A moment later the pale lips moved, and he
bent swiftly to catch the words.
"I knew--you'd come--chum," Ranny whispered. Then his lips curved in a
rueful smile. "Of all the rotten luck!" he murmured. "They never saw--our
drill."