CHAPTER II
BARRY TO THE RESCUE
“Gone!”
The cold perspiration stood out upon Barry Filmore’s hot forehead as he gazed transfixed at the spot where Jasper Powell had disappeared.
“He has committed suicide, while temporarily insane—and he has taken his secret with him,” thought the youth. “What an awful thing to do!”
He started to go forward—to see what had actually become of the old man—but the flames grew hotter and he was forced to retreat.
The thick, choking smoke was now swirling everywhere above his head, and he had to crouch low to keep from being both blinded and suffocated.
As he retreated his foot struck something bright and kicked it ahead.
It was a key, and to it was attached a bit of flat brass stamped with the number 18.
“The key to that mysterious room,” thought Barry. “I wonder if I have time to follow up that mystery?”
It was taking a big risk, for the flames were both below and behind him, and sweeping onward rapidly. Should he be caught, his life would pay the forfeit.
But Barry Filmore was used to taking chances, and was bound to take many more even more daring—otherwise this tale would never have been written. He had had his own way from childhood, and when he made up his mind to do a thing he always did it.
He knew where room 18 was located, on the floor above, almost at the front of the building. But could he climb those smoke-laden stairs and get back again before the fire should have a chance to cut him off?
“Here goes, anyway!” he muttered, half desperately. “If I’m lost, what does it matter? Nobody will be left to mourn over my death. I guess some of those fourth-handed relations out West will be glad to get hold of my money. They never cared for me.”
Up he went, swiftly but cautiously, crouching down like a whipped dog, that he might clear himself of the fatal smoke. Once a cloud swept over him and he had to shut his eyes and hold his breath. He breathed with difficulty and the tears ran down his cheeks like water.
Crash! boom! Something in the rear had given way, and up came a shower of sparks, burning him on the hands and neck and setting fire to his coat. But he slapped the tiny fire out and rushed on, and a moment later took him to the door of room 18.
It was the work of an instant to insert the key in the lock and open the door. But then Barry gave a cry of dismay, for before him he beheld what looked like a large empty closet.
“Duped!” he muttered, when he stopped short, for the cry of a human voice—the voice of a boy—had reached his ears. The cry came from behind the opening he had discovered.
“Hullo!” cried Barry. “Who are you, and where are you?”
“Here I am—Bob Baxter!” was the muffled answer. “Let me out! I think there must be fire around here!”
“Think there must be fire?” repeated Barry. “There is fire, and lots of it. Where are you?”
“Here,” and then followed a thump on the boarding at the back of the closet.
A closer examination showed Barry that the back of the closet formed a thick, packed door leading to an inner apartment—the door being similar to that used on a butcher’s refrigerator. The handle was concealed by a slide of wood, but the youth quickly uncovered it.
To swing the ponderous door open was not easy, and Barry tugged and tussled with it for fully a minute before it yielded. When the door came open an icy blast reached him which caused him to shiver.
The scene which met his gaze caused him to cry in amazement.
In the middle of the apartment before him stood a tall, well-built boy of sixteen. He was clothed in nothing but a bathing suit. Around the left ankle of the boy was a band of iron, attached to a long iron chain, which was fastened to a ring in the floor. The apartment, which was cold, contained a cot, upon which the boy had been sleeping, a stand with a number of books, and two chairs. There were no windows to the apartment, but several ventilators, and an incandescent light burned close to the ceiling.
“By stars! What are you doing here—and with only that bathing suit on?” demanded Barry, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “Do you want to freeze to death?”
“I’m so glad to see somebody besides old Powell,” answered the boy, in an odd voice, for he was not used to speaking to any one. “I wish I could get away from here.”
“You shall get away, and mighty quick, too. Do you know the storage warehouse is burning up?”
“I knew it was getting warm in here, and I noticed the smoke. But how am I going to get away with that around my ankle?”
“Doesn’t it unlock?”
“Yes; but Powell has the key.”
“Then it’s gone for good, for Jasper Powell has thrown himself into the fire. I have a bunch of keys and I’ll try to fix it. There, now you are free.”
“I’ll never forget you for that!” cried the lad, and caught Barry by the arm.
“Don’t talk now,” answered Barry. “We must get out, or it will be too late. Come.” And he led the way to the hallway.
But the flames had done their work, and escape in that direction was completely cut off.
“We will try the front windows—the firemen have ladders up,” said Barry. “Here, put on my overcoat.” For the night was so chilly that the youth had donned his light overcoat before leaving the Astor House.
They ran for the front windows and Barry raised one of the sashes. A firemen’s ladder was just below, but it was not quite high enough.
Willing hands raised up the ladder, putting on a bottom section.
“Shall we come up?” asked a fireman.
“No, we are all right,” answered Barry, and came out on the ladder, followed by the boy he had liberated. As both came down the ladder smoke and flames swirled all around them, but they reached the bottom in safety.
Then what a wild cheer went up!
Barry turned to his companion. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a room at the Astor House, only a few blocks from here. Come on,” and before firemen or police could stop him he had the stranger out of the crowd and was hurrying him up Vesey street. They entered the hotel by the side entrance, and a minute later were safe in Barry’s apartment.