The Story Continued by Walter Hartright

The thought leaped through me like the fire leaping out of the shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of the fire-engine in the town. “Have you got your pickaxes handy?” Yes, they had. “And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?” Yes! yes! yes! I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern in my hand. “Five shillings apiece to every man who helps me!” They started into life at the words. That ravenous second hunger of poverty⁠—the hunger for money⁠—roused them into tumult and activity in a moment. “Two of you for more lanterns, if you have them! Two of you for the pickaxes and the tools! The rest after me to find the beam!” They cheered⁠—with shrill starveling voices they cheered. The women and the children fled back on either side. We rushed in a body down the churchyard path to the first empty cottage. Not a man was left behind but the clerk⁠—the poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over the church. The servant was still at my heels⁠—his white, helpless, panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed into the cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down floor above, lying loose on the ground⁠—but they were too light. A beam ran across over our heads, but not out of reach of our arms and our pickaxes⁠—a beam fast at each end in the ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped away, and a great gap in the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked the beam at both ends at once. God! how it held⁠—how the brick and mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at one end⁠—it came down with a lump of brickwork after it. There was a scream from the women all huddled in the doorway to look at us⁠—a shout from the men⁠—two of them down but not hurt. Another tug all together⁠—and the beam was loose at both ends. We raised it, and gave the word to clear the doorway. Now for the work! now for the rush at the door! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter than ever to light us! Steady along the churchyard path⁠—steady with the beam for a rush at the door. One, two, three⁠—and off. Out rings the cheering again, irrepressibly. We have shaken it already, the hinges must give if the lock won’t. Another run with the beam! One,