The trail was narrow and the flames close on
either side.
Once, twice, the drying fabric was aflame, but he wrapped it under
wetter folds. His face was burning hot; he strove with might and main
against the dreadful faintness caused by the heat, and the smoke all but
suffocated him.
On and up he pressed, stooping and sometimes almost creeping, for it was
easier near the ground. Now he held the drying canvas with his teeth
and beat with his hands to extinguish the persistent flames. His power
of resistance was all but gone and as he realized it his heart sank
within him. At last, stooping like some sneaking thing, he reached the
sparser growth near the cut.
Two boys who had been driven to the verge of the precipice and lingered
there in dread of the alternative they must take, saw a strange sight. A
dull gray mass, with two ghostly hands reaching out and slapping at it,
and a wild-eyed face completely framed by its charred and blackening
shroud, emerged from amid the fire and smoke and came straight toward
them.
"What is it?" whispered the younger boy, drawing closer to Garry in
momentary fright at the sight of this spectral thing.
"Don't jump--it's me--Tom Slade! Here, take this rope, quick. I guess it
isn't burned any. I meant to wet it, too," he gasped. "Is that tree
solid? I can't seem to see. All right, quick! I can't do it. Make a loop
and put it under his arms and let him down."
There was not a minute to spare, and no time for explanations or
questions.
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