By instinct rather than reason I staggered to my feet.  I was so weak I could hardly stand, and my head spun around like a top.  Where was the door?

I tottered to one side and felt around.  There was the window tightly closed.  The door I knew was opposite.

Reeling, I made my way through the smoke that now seemed to fill my lungs, to where I knew the door to be.  Oh, horror! it was closed and secured!

“Heaven help me now!” burst from my parched lips.  “Am I to be roasted alive?”

With all my remaining strength I threw myself against the door.  Once, and again, and still it did not budge.

“Help! help!” I called at the top of my voice.

No answer came to my cry.  The fire behind me became hotter and hotter.  The roof had now caught, and the sparks fell down upon me in a perfect shower.

Another moment and it would be all over.  With a brief prayer to God for help in my dire need, I attacked the door for the last time.

At first it did not budge.  Then there was a creaking, a sharp crack, and at last it flew wide open.

Oh, how grateful was the breath of fresh air that struck me!  I stumbled out into the clearing and opened wide my throat to take in the pure draught.

Then for the first time I realized how nearly I had been overcome.  I could no longer stand, and swooning, sank in a heap to the ground.

CHAPTER IX

 New trouble

“He’s alive, boys.”

These were the words that greeted my ears on recovering my senses.  I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by a number of boys and men.

“How did you come here?” asked Henry Morse, a sturdy farmer who lived in the neighborhood.

I was too much confused to make any intelligent reply.  Rising to a sitting position, I gazed around.

The tool house had burned to the ground, there being no means at hand to extinguish the fire.  The glare of the conflagration had called out several dozens of people from Darbyville and the vicinity, several of whom had stumbled upon me as I lay in the clearing.

“What’s the matter, Roger?” asked Larry Simpson, a young man who kept a bookstore in the town.

“The matter is that I nearly lost my life in that fire,” I replied.

“How did you come here?”

As briefly as I could I related my story, leaving out all references to my personal affairs and the finding of Nicholas Weaver’s statement.  At present I considered it would do no good to disclose what I knew on those points.

“I think I saw that tramp yesterday,” said Larry after I had finished.  “He bought a sheet of paper and an envelope in my store, and then asked if he could write a letter there.”

“And did he?” I asked in curiosity.

“Yes.  At first I hated to let him do it,—­ he looked so disreputable,—­ but then I thought it might be an application for a position, and so told him to go ahead.”