What happened then, happened like a flash of lightning. For a brief second they saw Blythe hanging from the collapsing structure. Then they saw him let go. Perhaps they did not know the full significance of Roy’s predicament. They thought Blythe stark mad.

He struck the flooring with a thud, drew his breath and grabbed his ankle in a sudden twinge of pain, stood, fell again with an exclamation of agony, then dragged himself to his hands and knees, and pulled Roy to the ground. Bracing his own back above the prostrate form he waited, the cords standing out on his arms like ropes. He gulped and jerked his head as if to shake away the agony that seemed killing him. His body was well clear of the small form beneath him. And thus he waited, one second, two seconds,–

And then with an appalling sound of splitting timbers the whole structure collapsed and fell upon him.

So suddenly did this happen that Blythe had scarcely braced himself over Roy’s body when both were buried under the fallen debris. Nor had the scouts at the edge of the roof wholly escaped; several who had not jumped quickly enough and far enough received slight cuts and bruises from the falling timbers.

Scrambling to their feet they called to the victims who were pinned unseen beneath the wreckage, starting at the same time to haul away the debris. There was no answer from beneath.

“What did he do? What did he do it for?” one asked.

“Why didn’t Roy get from under?”

“Search me; hurry up, pull the stuff off them.”

“Blythe is crazy.”

“Sure he is.”

“He didn’t think fast enough; he’s not to blame. Hurry up.”

“Roy was crazy, you mean.”

They worked frantically pulling away the fallen boards and beams, Grove Bronson with a handkerchief wound around his bleeding hand, Wig Weigand with a great bruise on his forehead. Pee-wee strove like a giant. Soon the form of Blythe was revealed, braced by his hands and knees, and Roy lying prostrate beneath him.

“How are you?” one of the scouts called.

“All right,” Roy answered; “my foot is caught under the flooring.”

“Blythe all right? How about you, Blythey?”

Blythe did not answer. He seemed immovable, like a figure of stone. His bare arms gave the impression of a taut rope. A heavy timber which they lifted from across his back, where it had lain like a seesaw, must have all but broken his spine. A rusted nail in it had torn his poor, shabby coat almost in twain, and there was blood on the flannel shirt beneath it. Blood was flowing freely from a wound in his head and dripping down from his neck like water off a roof.

They turned back his coat collar to see if there might be a cut on his neck and there, confronting them, was the little cloth label containing the name of the clothing store in Quebec. It shocked the scouts to see that in the very moment of their friend’s supreme heroism.“Blythe? Are you all right? Speak? Stand up, can’t you?”

He neither moved nor spoke. He seemed transformed into an iron brace. Across the calves of his legs lay a heavy timber, which had cut his trousers and which must almost have crushed his legs when it fell. As they lifted it blood trickled away. They noticed that he moved both feet spasmodically as if they had been asleep. There could have been no circulation there, for the timber across his legs had acted like a great tourniquet.

He remained immovable, silent, until the scouts had released Roy’s foot and helped him out from under that human roof. That roof, at least, had not collapsed. Bruised and bleeding as Blythe was, he remained in his attitude of Herculean resistance as if he had died and become petrified there.

Then he spoke, his voice weak but tense, “Is he all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” said Roy; “how about you?”

Blythe did not answer. He drew himself to his feet, reeled, clutched at Westy who stood nearest, and fell to the ground insensible.

Just at that moment Warde Hollister noticed something, and without speaking indicated it to one or two others. It was a trifling coincidence and held his glance and thought for but a second. On an end of fallen beam which protruded from the wreckage sat a robin with head cocked sideways watching the stricken, unconscious hero.

It seemed odd that right in that minute of his heroic abandonment, his companions should be reminded of his villainy and of his gentleness....