Lisa stood in the empty window-frame, a trembling figure on a
background of flame. Her post was not at the moment in absolute
danger. There was hope yet, though to the onlookers there seemed
none.
'Throw him!' 'Drop him!' 'Le' go of him!' shouted the crowd.
'Hold your jaws, and let me do the talking!' roared the policeman.
'Stop your noise, if you don't want two dead children on your
consciences! Keep back, you brutes, keep back o' the rope, or I'll
club you!'
It was not so much the officer's threats as simple, honest awe that
caused a sudden hush to fall. There were whisperings, sighs, tears,
murmurings, but all so subdued that it seemed like silence in the
midst of the fierce crackling of the flames.
'Drop him! We'll ketch him in the quilt!' called the policeman,
standing as near as he dared.
Lisa looked shudderingly at the desperate means of salvation so far
below, and, turning her face away as much as she could, unclasped her
arms despairingly, and Atlantic came swooping down from their
shelter, down, down into the counterpane; stunned, stifled, choked by
smoke, but uninjured, as Lisa knew by the cheers that greeted his
safe descent.
A tongue of fire curled round the corner of the building and ran up
to the roof towards another that was licking its way along the top of
the window.
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