BOY SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE
Bruce Clifford and the other members of Quarry Troop No. 1, waited only
to determine the location of the column of smoke that now extended clear
across the sky, then, selecting the short cut across the field by which
they had come, they hurried pellmell toward the scene of trouble.
"It's down in the factories!" panted Romper as he ran.
"Yes, I think it's Mayor Worthington's woolen mills," shouted Bud.
"By Jove, I guess you're right," yelled Bruce as they turned into Willow
Street and saw smoke pouring from the windows of the big brick building
at the far end of the street.
It was the worst fire that Woodbridge had experienced in years. By the
time the firemen reached the scene the whole west end of the building was
enveloped in flames and a section of the slate roof had already caved in.
From every window long tongues of red flames darted out like hideous
serpents' tongues. Great sparks shot skyward as sections of the west
wall crumbled and fell into the red hot caldron that had once been the
building's interior, and the heat was so intense that windows in the
factory building across the street cracked and crumbled.
It was a fortunate thing for Woodbridge that there was a score of
visiting fire companies in town, or else the whole south section of the
village would have been wiped out. Chief Blaney, almost beside himself
with anxiety, implored the visiting chiefs for their assistance. And
assist him they did. Every company got its equipment into action and
lines of hose were strung in some cases nearly half a mile. There were
at least a dozen hand engines and two steamers on the banks of Otter
Creek supplying lines to the fire, not to mention the hundreds of feet of
hose that were coupled to the village hydrant system in every direction.
But all that the willing vamps could do seemed to no avail. The fire
demon was rampant. He roared full cry through the long brick building,
consuming everything in his path. Section after section of roof sagged,
then fell with a crash and a roar into the flames, sending aloft a shower
of crackling sparks.
"Thank heavens, this was a holiday. There's no one in the building,"
Bruce heard Chief Blaney cry as he hurried past in company with the
foreman of a visiting company.
But the rubber-coated fire fighter had hardly uttered the words when a
shout went up from the crowd at the east end of the building, where the
firm's office was located. Men with blanched faces and trembling hands
were pointing towards the big iron barred window that marked the counting
room.
"O-o-h! It's old Uriah Watkins!" shrieked Blaney.
Bruce looked and turned sick at the sight. There, his wrinkled old face
pressing against the bars, was the aged bookkeeper of the woolen mills.
One hand was extended between the iron grating in frantic appeal. The
other clutched the precious ledgers that the old man had rashly rushed
into the building to rescue. His ashen face was set with a horrible
expression, and his eyes stood out with terror. Bruce saw his lips move,
but could not hear his feeble voice above the roar of the flames.
For a moment the scout stood panic stricken. Then suddenly his lips
pressed together and his face took on a determined look. In a flash he
turned to Bud and gave a few brief orders. Then, elbowing their way
through the jam and press about them, the youngsters disappeared and left
Bruce there alone.
In the meantime a score of vamps had been summoned by Chief Blaney to
rescue the aged bookkeeper. They attacked the heavy bars on the window
with sledges and axes, but with no success. They tried to pry away the
bricks with crowbars, but this, too, failed, and it was quite apparent to
all that if Uriah Watkins was to be saved it could be accomplished only
by the slow and laborious task of sawing through the bars. Could this be
done? Had they the time to accomplish the task? Already a nearby
section of the roof had caved in! How long would it be before the flames
reached the office and burned the old man alive?
At this point the figure of a boy in Scout uniform broke through the fire
lines and rushed up to the side of Chief Blaney. Standing at attention,
Bruce saluted in regulation Boy Scout fashion and asked briefly:
"Chief, can the Boy Scout Engineers take a hand in this? I'll have the
bars cut in two minutes."
"You will what--! Why--!"
"Yes, yes, we can do it; I've sent for our fire department--here come
the Scouts now!"
The shriek of sirens was heard above the din about the factory building
and the great crowd beheld seven motorcycles tearing down the hill at top
speed. And just behind them bowled "Old Nanc" at her best.
"Have I your permission to take a hand?" demanded Bruce.
"Yes! yes! for goodness' sake do anything you can to free him!" cried the
chief.
The line of motorcycles stopped and hose lines were quickly strung. But
the red automobile rumbled on, to come to a halt within ten yards of the
building. Already two scouts were unlimbering the oxyhydrogen tanks and
blow pipe equipment. Bruce rushed forward to aid them, while Chief
Blaney looked on quite puzzled for the moment.
Working fast, but with the utmost coolness, Bruce donned a pair of
asbestos gloves that came with the equipment and attached the blow pipe.
Romper turned on the gases, while the young leader produced a match and
ignited the torch. Instantly a tiny blue flame shot out that hissed and
sputtered in a threatening manner.
As he advanced toward the window Bruce saw that the old bookkeeper had
disappeared. He knew from this that there was no time to be lost, for
the man had probably fainted and would soon be overcome with smoke.
Hastily he shot the blue flame at the base of the first bar. There was a
hiss and a shower of sparks as the flame met the cold metal. Bruce
pressed the blow pipe closer, while he watched with anxious eye the
progress of the flame.
The bar grew red, then gold, then white. The heat was terrific. The bar
began to melt, slowly first, then faster, until the blue flame ate
completely through. Another was attacked, and still another, until the
scout had cut a hole in the iron grating large enough for a man to pass
through.
Shouting to Romper to turn off the gas, he dropped the blow pipe, and
plunging a handkerchief in a fire pail that stood near by, he tied the
cloth over his nose and mouth. Then he hoisted himself through the
window and disappeared.
Inside the smoke was thick and black, but Bruce could see flames dart
through at the far end of the room, and he knew that in a few moments
more the place would be seething.
He groped vainly about for the old bookkeeper. Where was he? He had
dropped under the window a moment ago. Had he tried to crawl to the
door? What had happened?
The smoke was so thick that even the moist handkerchief was of no avail.
Bruce began to strangle. Then suddenly he remembered the instructions in
his Handbook. The air was purest near the floor!
He dropped to his hands and knees, and with his face to the boards he
began to crawl about, blindly groping for the body of the old bookkeeper.
His fingers clutched something. He drew the object toward him and
peered at it through the smoke. It was Uriah Watkins doubled in a ball,
though unconscious and almost suffocated, the faithful old man still
clasped his precious ledgers.
Bruce knew that unless the man reached the open air immediately he would
perish. Also he knew that if they were not both clear of the building in
a few minutes they would be food for the flames which were even then
thrusting spiteful tongues under the door at the other end of the room.
Here again the instructions of the Handbook stood the scout in good
stead. He knew that it would be next to suicide to stand up and try to
carry the prostrated form to the window. The smoke was so thick even
down there near the floor that he was gasping and choking.
He twisted his hand into the old man's collar and began to crawl, face to
the floor, back toward the gray space that marked the window through the
smoke, hauling Uriah after him. Foot by foot he dragged his burden. In
spite of the handkerchief the smoke was getting into his lungs. His
chest pained him dreadfully. Oh, what wouldn't he give for a single breath
of pure, fresh air! The eight or ten feet to the side wall seemed like
eight or ten miles. Would he never reach there!
Finally his hand struck the wall and he stood erect. The draught caused
by the open window was drawing thick smoke out of the building into the
air. Bruce knew he could not stand in that current of gases long.
Pulling Uriah Watkins forward, he raised the limp form and forced it
through the window ahead of him. Willing hands seized the old bookkeeper
and lifted him to safety.
Then, dizzy and sick, Bruce clutched at the ledge and scrambled up. But
a dreadful nausea seized him as he knelt on the window sill. His head
whirled. He lost his balance. He knew he was falling backward into the
burning building, but he was powerless to save himself. He gave a
stifled cry of terror, and in answer the loud voice of Chief Blaney
boomed in his ear and strong arms encircled his waist. Then everything
grew black.
The Boy Scout Engineers never forgot the shout that went up when Chief
Blaney carried the unconscious form of Bruce to safety. They were mighty
proud of their leader. But they were prouder still when, a week later,
Bruce was summoned into the presence of Mayor Worthington and Chief
Blaney and presented with a parchment charter which officially informed
him that the fire company of Quarry Troop had been officially made a
member of the Woodbridge Fire Department, to be known thereafter as
Chemical Company No. 1, with Brewster W. Clifford as the Chief.