"Pull yourself together,
man. We shall have all we can do to get out of this."
Craig turned to the door but staggered back almost immediately.
"The stairs are going!" he shrieked. "It is the kitchen that is on fire.
We are cut off! We cannot get down!"
Quest was on his hands and knees, fumbling under his truckle bed. He
pulled out a crude form of fire escape, a rough sort of cradle with a rope
attached.
"Know how to use this?" he asked Craig quickly. "Here, catch hold. Put
your arms inside this strap."
"You are going to send me down first?" Craig exclaimed incredulously.
Quest smiled. Then he drew the rope round the table and tied it.
"You would like to have a chance of cutting the rope, wouldn't you, when I
was half way down?" he asked grimly. "Now then, don't waste time. Get on
to the window-sill. Don't brake too much. Off you go!"
Yard by yard, swinging a little in the air, Craig made his descent. When
he arrived in the street, there were a hundred willing hands to release
him. Quest drew up the rope quickly, warned by a roar of anxious voices.
The walls of the room were crumbling. Volumes of smoke were now pouring in
underneath the door, and through the yawning fissures of the wall. Little
tongues of flame were leaping out dangerously close to the spot where he
must pass. He let fall the slack of the rope and leaned from the window to
watch it anxiously. Then he commenced to descend, letting himself down
hand over hand, always with one eye upon that length of rope that swung
below.
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