To break in by another
window was the only way. He smashed his way in to the other front
room, and hurriedly gathered up all he could. There was no time to save
anything heavy. His quick mind guided him to the things he knew Bob and
Tommy valued most--things that had been Aunt Margaret's in the past,
that spoke of their old happy life in France. He spread an embroidered
cloth on the floor and pitched his treasure trove into it--working
feverishly, choking and gasping, until the flames began to crackle
through the wall, and the ceiling above him split across. Then he
plunged through the window, and staggered across the lawn with his
burden--falling beside it at last, spent and breathless, his throat
parched with smoke, and his eyes almost sightless. But he picked himself
up presently and went back. All the rooms were blazing now. The side
verandah had not yet caught, and on it he saw an old oaken chest that
did double duty as a seat and as a wardrobe for Bob's spare clothes. The
sight brought fresh energy back to Wally.
"By Jove, there's old Bob's box!" he uttered. "I'll have to get that."
He dragged it across the verandah and on to the path. It was cruelly
heavy. He had to stop and rest again and again; but still he struggled
on, a few yards at a time, until it, too, was in comparative safety.
Then there was nothing else that he could do but sit on the grass and
watch the gay little home that they had all loved as it fell into ruins.
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