its glass well breaking and loosing a flood of kerosene to receive the burning wick. The explosion followed instantly. In a trice the hallway was a lake of burning oil.
Still fighting like a madman, contesting every foot of the way, Alan was borne downstairs by the fleeing mob and out of the front door. The doorway vomited men and women of the tenement. By the time they left the way clear a solid wall of flame stood behind it.
Thrice Alan essayed to pass that barrier of fire, and thrice it threw him back.
Then drawing aside, he endeavoured to come to his sober senses, and cast about for some more feasible way to effect the rescue of his Rose.
That way was revealed to him in another instant.
The tenement occupied one corner of a narrow street and directly opposite stood a storage warehouse. Before this last was the common landing stage for truck deliveries protected by a shed roof. And, suspended from a timber that peered out over the eaves, a hoisting tackle dragged the ground with its ropes.
It was the work of another minute to rig a loop in the line and fasten it round his body beneath the arms. Volunteers did not lack—a couple of husky longshoremen sprang to the ropes. They heaved with a will. His feet left the ground. He caught the
