“Here—just a minute—” cried Bill, “yes, by Jove! I believe we can do it!”

Osceola turned back. “Not that chimney you’re staring at! It’s got funnels at the top. We—”

“No—not the chimney, guy! The lightning rod! I forgot these oldtime houses had them. Quick now, with Deborah! I’ll go first. You pass her out to me.”

He leapt through the open window onto the slates a few feet below. Almost immediately, Osceola lifted Deborah’s limp body over the sill, where Bill caught her in his arms and hurried with his sagging burden toward a corner of the roof. There he put down the unconscious girl and lying flat, peered over the edge of the rotting gutter.
119

Osceola dropped beside him. “The rod looks strong enough, but do you think those rusty iron stanchions will stand the strain?”

“Our weight may pull a few loose, but that won’t bring the rod down. I just wanted to be sure there wasn’t any break—that it ran all the way to the ground.” He jumped to his feet. “Give me a hand with Deb.”

“But I’ll—”

“No, you won’t. I was trained to this at the Academy. Pick her up and hang her on my shoulders—not that way—head one side and legs t’other, so her body drapes round my neck. That’s it. Now rip off your belt and lash her wrists to her ankles. She mustn’t slip and I’ll have to use both hands on the rod. Got it fast? Fine. Will you go first?”

“No—you—I’ll help you over the edge. And Bill—we’ve only a minute or two left—”
120

With Deborah’s dead weight balanced on his shoulders and the base of his neck, Bill got down on his knees and keeping firm hold of the lightning rod that ran from the chimney across the roof on raised iron stanchions, went gingerly backwards over the creaking gutter. Then slowly, hand over hand he let himself and his burden down the rod. Notwithstanding his confident words to Osceola, he was fearful of pulling loose the staples, that at intervals of three or four feet secured the rod to the side of the house. He was obliged to use his hands as his sole means of support. If he pulled outward, pressing the rubber soles of his sneakers against the siding, the chances were the rotten wood holding the staples would give. For the same reason, he refrained from planting his feet on the stanchions themselves, as he let himself down.

The strain of the double weight was fearful. His shoulder muscles and biceps felt as though they were at the cracking point. And the corrugated rod lacerated the palms of his hands until they were bleeding badly.
121

He was descending the side of the house that looked over the field and the road. Suddenly he heard a shout from below, and the answering hail from Osceola just above his head told him that the police were arriving.

“Get back! Get back—all of you!” yelled the chief. “There’s a bomb in the house—likely to explode any time now!”

Bill’s right hand slipped. For an instant he thought he was gone but he managed to gain a hold with his lacerated left. Deborah hung like a millstone about his neck. As he felt for the rod with his toes, her legs and thighs slipped over his right shoulder, pinning that arm to his side, and bringing the full weight of her body on the left side of his neck and head. Bill found himself in the terrible predicament of being totally unable to move—either upward or down. Searing pain shot through his left hand—his head reeled. In one more second he must drop—
122

“Let go, lad—” called Mr. Dixon’s voice from below. “You’re almost down.”

Strong arms caught him about the knees. He released his grip, as they let him down. Then Deborah’s now unbearable weight was taken from his shoulders. Somebody far away cried—“Good Lord! the boy’s hands are in ribbons!” And Bill, for the first time in his life, fainted.

* * * * * * * *

Bang! Crash!

He felt himself hurtling through space to light head first on something fairly soft, but with a jar that almost loosened his front teeth.

“Don’t kick—that’s my face—or was,” growled a deep voice.

Bill was pushed violently to one side. He opened his eyes and sat up, feeling as though he had been pounded with a sledge-hammer.

“The other way—” said the same deep voice. “The wind of the thing sent us heels over teakettle.”
123

Bill turned his head slowly and painfully. Beside him sat a large and husky individual in the dark uniform of the Connecticut State Police. Possibly two hundred yards away, a huge mass of debris was burning. Over it hung a heavy cloud of jet black smoke.

“Yes, that’s the house, or what’s left of it,” explained the policeman. “Lucky we weren’t nearer. Talk about your fireworks! Say, how are you feelin’, kid?”

“Kinda woozy, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it—”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nuthin’—except that when you and I went up in the air, you dove headfirst into me stomach—and it sure does feel lousy!”

“Gee, that’s too bad—” Bill sympathized. “I certainly hope I didn’t dent your pretty belt buckle with my teeth—or what’s left of them! You were toting me, I take it?”

“Yeah. I was runnin’ wid you over my shoulder when the blast come.”
124

“And—er—woke me up.”

“You said it. I’ll bet that head o’ yourn rammed into me belt buckle a good eight inches! The inside o’ me backbone feels black an’ blue.”

They got to their feet. Bill’s head, though aching, was now perfectly clear. He saw that they stood in the knee-high grass of the field. Two cars were approaching along the drive. Several groups of men were spread out over the field. He recognized Osceola, carrying Deborah in his arms. Beside him walked Mr. Dixon. They were making for the motor cars.

A familiar voice hailed Bill, and looking around, he saw Mr. Davis behind him.

“Well, that was a very pretty tumble you and the sergeant took a while ago,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“It kind of woke me up,” said Bill, “but our friend here says he feels like the break-up of a heavy winter.”
125

“Square in the belly,” complained the policeman. He began to repeat the story of his bruised backbone, when Mr. Davis cut in on him.

“Goodness............