Under Boy Scout Colors Part 26

One thing only was he thankful for at that moment--the heartening touch of Sanson's shoulder against his own. To have faced the ordeal alone would have been almost intolerable. He did not raise his eyes above the third b.u.t.ton on the captain's coat, and so he missed the look of pride and approval the man bent on him as he pinned the silver cross upon the boy's left breast.

"It is a great pleasure for me to give you this," he said, "and to thank you in the name of the national council for having proved so great a credit to the scouts."

Dale's hand went up, and he saluted. "Thank you, sir," he said in a low tone.

"And remember, both of you," went on the captain, when he had placed the second cross on Sanson's coat, "that it isn't the medal that counts, but the deed which has earned it."

As the boys turned and marched back to their places the applause burst out again with renewed vigor until it seemed as if it would never cease.

But at length it died away and the entertainment proceeded. Troop Three started off with an exhibition of signaling which was swift, snappy, and on the minute. Then came some tent-erecting, and, following that, two troops combined to give an elaborate and graphic exhibition of their expertness in first aid, which met with much favor. When this was over, the troops who had finished lined up and stood at ease on either side of the center to give Troop Five room for their evolutions.

Bob Gibson's position was directly in front of the closed double doors leading into the hall. He had scarcely taken it before he became conscious of a distinct odor of something burning. For a moment he was uneasy; then he remembered that there was a register just behind him, and decided that the janitor had probably chosen this auspicious moment to consume in the furnace the rubbishy acc.u.mulation of several offices on the lower floors.

When the applause that greeted their appearance had subsided, Mr. Curtis stepped forward to explain briefly the purpose of their drill. He had scarcely spoken more than a sentence or two when Gibson became aware of a slight stir among some of the audience and noticed that a number of those in the front row seemed to be staring fixedly at his feet.

A flush mounted to Bob's forehead. He was quite sure his shoes were immaculately polished. He also realized perfectly that he ought not notice the audience, but remain rigidly at attention. But presently curiosity got the better of discipline. He shot a furtive glance at his feet--a glance that flashed sidewise beyond the trim shoes and well-fitting leggings to rest in dumb, horrified amazement on the crack extending below the double doors, through which a thin line of smoke was slowly trickling.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

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 s.h.i.+vers chasing down the spine. To Gibson, standing pale and frightened, it seemed as if that whole close-packed a.s.semblage 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 st.u.r.dy 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 impa.s.sable. 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 crus.h.i.+ng weight of the mob das.h.i.+ng 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 s.p.a.ce 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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."