"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 in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some
canyon far below.
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