Her eyes
instinctively turned to look at Patsy in his place on the porch.
Then a cry of horror burst from the crowd, silenced instantly as a
piercing shriek filled the air.
"My God! It's me Patsy!"
Bareheaded in the open doorway of the now blazing loft, a
silhouette against the flame, his little white gown reaching to
his knees, his crutch gone, the stifling smoke rolling out in
great whirls above his head, stood the cripple!
Tom hurled herself into the crowd, knocking the men out of her
way, and ran towards the chain room door. At this instant a man
in his shirt-sleeves dropped from the smoking roof, sprang in
front of her, and caught her in his arms.
"No, not you go; Carl go!" he said in a firm voice, holding her
fast.
Before she could speak he snatched a handkerchief from a woman's
neck, plunged it into the water of the horse-trough, bound it
about his head, dashed up the short flight of steps, and crawled
toward the terror-stricken child. There was a quick clutch, a
bound back, and the smoke rolled over them, shutting man and child
from view.
The crowd held their breath as it waited. A man with his hair
singed and his shirt on fire staggered from the side door. In his
arms he carried the almost lifeless boy, his face covered by the
handkerchief.
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