  By the time the automobile reached Fulton street, Flash could see shooting flames. The entire southern sky had taken on a bright crimson glow, and a high wind, blowing from the direction of the waterfront, carried acrid fumes and smoke. “Must be the old apartment house district!” Flash exclaimed. “The Werner coal yard is near there, too! If the fire really gets started, half of Brandale might go!” The car came to a jerking halt in a traffic jam. Thanking the driver, Flash leaped out and ran the remaining two blocks. A tangle of fire equipment laced the narrow street in front of the Elston Apartments, a ten-story brick building which was oozing smoke from beneath the flat roof. Already three pumpers, two rescue squads, and two hook-and-ladder trucks were at the scene, maneuvering into position. Flash could see flames pouring from the basement and first floor windows. Firemen were leading women and children through the blinding smoke to the safety of the street. A few persons, overcome by smoke were stretched out on the pavement, receiving first-aid treatment. A deputy chief, three bugles on his white helmet, shouted orders to the men aboard a new ladder truck. “Raise that aerial! Forty!” The mechanically operated metal ladder shot skyward in two sections to an upper window of the burning apartment building where a man could be seen bent over the sill, half-overcome by smoke. Flash elbowed his way through the excited crowd of onlookers, reaching the front rank. “Hey, keep back, you!” a policeman ordered sharply. Flash pulled out his courtesy card. “Okay,” nodded the officer, allowing him to pass. “Just keep out of the firemen’s way.” Flash focused his camera in time to get a shot of a fireman who had clambered up the ladder through the black pall of smoke, rescuing the man at the window. Then he rushed over to where the rescue squad was hard at work. As he leaped over a length of flat hose it bulged full of water, writhing and twisting like a great jungle snake. The heat was searing Flash’s face but he had no awareness of discomfort. Blazing embers dropped at his feet. One burned a hole through his coat. Filled with a wild elation, he snapped picture after picture, reloading his camera as fast as he could. Lines of hose had been stretched from every available hydrant so that great streams of water could be poured on the fire. Adjoining buildings were blanketed down in the desperate fight to keep them from igniting. Flash approached the deputy chief who stood by Engine 12, reading a pressure dial. “Will the coal yards go?” he asked. “Don’t know yet,” the chief answered shortly. “We expect to save ’em.” “Is everyone out of the building?” The chief nodded and strode away. Flash dropped back to get a long range shot of the blazing building, because he saw that Deems of the Globe was taking a similar picture. It was the first time he had seen the photographer since the night of the Gezzy-Brady fight. Edging close he tried to speak a few words of gratitude for the favor he had received. Deems cut him short. “Glad to do it,” he said curtly. “But I can’t give you any help on this job. It’s every man for himself.” “Won’t need any help,” grinned Flash. “I’m doing pretty well.” He hoped that his words would not prove to be an idle boast. The test must come when he developed his films. If he had misjudged the amount of light, he would be faced with a second failure. But Flash refused to think of such a possibility. He stood gazing up at the flaming walls, listening to the loud, sucking draft which roared through the building. Then his gaze wandered to the adjoining Marilyn Apartment which had been vacated as a precautionary measure. Firemen had carried hose into the dwelling and were shooting a steady stream of water through the windows, across a narrow areaway. “I might get some unusual shots from up there,” thought Flash. “Anyway, it’s worth trying.” Unchallenged, he entered the smoke-filled building, and climbed to the fifth floor. Letting himself into a deserted apartment suite opposite the flaming building, he set up his tripod, and focused his camera upon an engine man who was feeding a stream of water across the areaway. Flash was so close to the fire that the heat nearly choked him. Black, rolling smoke hit him in waves, cutting off the view below, and blinding his eyes for long minutes at a time. In a near-by window, the engine man motioned to Flash and shouted something which he did not understand. But as he watched, the man shut off the flow to the nozzle and moved to a new location farther away. A blanket of smoke hid him entirely from view. Flash soon shifted his own position to another window at the corner of the building. As a billow of smoke cleared away, he stared across to the opposite window ledge, scarcely believing what he saw. An elderly man, groggy from heat and smoke, stood behind the open window, perceptibly weaving back and forth as if about to fall. With horror, Flash realized that in some way the fellow had been overlooked when firemen searched the building. Unless help reached him, and quickly, he would perish, for the halls and stairs leading to safety already were a blazing inferno. A cloud of smoke rose up from a lower window, blotting the figure from view. Flash gazed downward. He could not see the street. He shouted several times, but his cries went unanswered. In another minute the areaway cleared again. While Flash still could not attract attention from the street, he was relieved to observe that his shouts for help had aroused the old man from a state of daze. Staggering against the window sill, he motioned to the photographer. His lips moved, yet made no audible sound. “Stay where you are!” shouted Flash. “Don’t go away! I’ll bring help!” He was not certain the old man understood or would obey. But he dared waste no time by repeating his instructions. At any moment the fellow might be overcome, or the walls might fall. Flash ran to the window where he had last seen the engine man. The hose lay there but the fireman was gone, evidently called to a more urgent post. Starting for the street to summon help, Flash jerked open a door which he thought led into a main corridor. He found himself in a large closet filled with half empty buckets of paint. His gaze focused hopefully upon a tall step ladder used recently by painters. Instantly Flash’s plan of action changed. With a life at stake time was precious. He doubted if he could bring help in time to save the man. But the ladder might turn the trick. Seizing it, he hurried back to the window. He was relieved to see the old man standing where he last had been, silhouetted against a wall of flickering flame. Flash pushed the ladder through the open window and across the narrow areaway to the opposite ledge. It barely bridged the gap. “Get out on the ledge!” he shouted encouragingly. “Crawl over! I’ll steady the ladder!” The old man, his face ghastly in the weird light, climbed through the window to the stone ledge. There he cowered, his back to the brick wall, afraid to trust himself to the ladder. “Come on! Hurry!” Flash urged impatiently. “It’s your only chance! The building can’t last much longer.” The old fellow stared at him in a stupid, bewildered way. Even the searing fire in the room behind, could not drive him to attempt it. Flash realized that he was only wasting precious time. Hesitating only an instant, the photographer swung his legs through the window. Testing the ladder to make certain it was firmly in place, he crawled nimbly toward the man on the opposite ledge. Halfway across he glanced down. Through the rolling clouds of smoke, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the street five stories below. For a moment his courage nearly failed him. He clung tightly to the ladder, fighting the wave of dizziness which swept over him. Then, gaining control of himself, he crawled the remaining distance, and reached out a hand to the terrified man. “I’m afraid,” the old fellow whimpered piteously. “I can’t do it. The ladder might slip. I can’t.” “Do you want to burn?” Flash demanded. “Come on, before it’s too late!” He seized the old man by the coat and pulled him out on the ladder. For a fearful second he thought that they both might lose their balance and plunge to the street. But once on the ladder, the old fellow maintained a measure of self-control. Although he whimpered with fear, he did not clutch Flash or struggle against the grasp of his arm. Inch by inch the young photographer backed toward his own window and safety. He kept hold of the old man’s coat, steadying him and lending him confidence. “Don’t look down,” Flash commanded. “Keep your eyes on the window.” The ladder beneath them creaked and groaned, and as the old man made a jerky movement, one end slipped slightly. “Steady,” warned Flash. They remained motionless and the ladder settled back into place. “Another foot and we’ll be there,” Flash said encouragingly as they crept on once more. He reached the ledge. With a sigh of relief he felt his feet swing over the sill and strike the floor. But just as he relaxed, the ladder gave a convulsive movement. As it tilted, unburdening its human cargo, Flash clung desperately to the old man. The ladder struck the street with a resounding crash. The old man had started to plunge with it, but his fall was broken by the powerful grasp of the photographer’s muscular arms. Flash, too, was half pulled through the window. He fought with strong leg and back muscles to maintain his balance. Terrified by his plight, the old man gave a choked cry and struggled frantically. His wild contortions made the task of pulling him to safety all but impossible. Flash’s heart began to pound from the intensity of the effort. Yet it never occurred to him to release his hold on the man’s wrists. Exerting his utmost strength he pulled the old man up a few inches, only to feel him slip back a greater distance. And Flash was slowly being dragged across the sill by the old man’s weight. Flash could see the street far below, momentarily clear of smoke. A shiver wracked his exhausted body. Unless help came quickly they both would plunge to their deaths! Smoke swirled in Flash’s face, and the intense heat from the areaway sapped his little remaining strength. His heart felt as if it would hammer itself from his breast. His breath came in panting gasps. Once more he made a valiant effort to pull the old man to safety. Again he failed. Inch by inch they both were slipping downward. His knees were losing their grip under the sill. In another instant he and the man he sought to save would plunge to the areaway below. Even as he abandoned all hope, Flash felt himself firmly grasped by the legs. Slowly but steadily he was hauled back through the window. The strain upon the young photographer’s arms was terrific, yet he clung desperately to the old man. Both were drawn through the opening to safety. Spent by the ordeal, they slumped on the floor. Flash saw then, that his rescuer was the same fireman who previously had been in the building. “Thanks,” he gasped gratefully. “I thought it was curtains for sure.” “Would have been in another minute,” grunted the fireman. “When that ladder crashed to the street I knew something was wrong up here. Couldn’t see on account of the smoke.” The old man had passed out completely. Stooping, the fireman gathered him up and slung the inert body over his back. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Flash heard the words as if from a long distance. He tried to follow the fireman but his feet refused to move. Every muscle seemed paralyzed. He weaved sideways, dizzy from the heat. Then quietly, he crumpled. |
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