On his knees, groping with his hands, Gilleen reached him, and began to tear furiously, savagely, madly, at the timber that lay across Regan’s chest. He moved it little by little, every inch tasking his weakening muscles to the utmost. Blackness was before him, he could no longer see, he could no longer breathe, hot, nauseating fumes strangled him and sent the blood bursting from his nostrils. He tried to lift Regan’s shoulders--and sank down beside the master mechanic instead. Feebly he raised his head--there came the splintering crash of glass, a rushing stream tore through a window, hissed against the boiler-shell above him, and, glancing off, lashed a cold spray of water into his face. The window! Three yards to the window! He was up again, and pulling at the dead weight of the master mechanic. Just three yards! He cried like a child as he struggled, and the tears ran down his cheeks in streams. A foot, two feet, three--_two more yards to go_. Axes were swinging now in front of him, shouts reached him. Half the distance was covered--but he had gone to his knees. Everything around was hot, it was all fire and hell and madness. A yard and a half--only a yard and a half. Alone he could make it easily enough and maybe Regan was dead anyhow, alone and there was safety and life, alone--then he laughed. “It’s a grand race, Regan, a grand race,” he sobbed hysterically, and his grip tightened on the master mechanic, and he won another foot and another and another. A black form wavered before him, he felt an arm reach out and grasp him--then he tottered, swayed, and dropped inert, unconscious. They got him out, and they got Regan out, and they got the fire out by the time there wasn’t much left to burn; and, after a week or two, both men got out of the hospital. That’s about all there is to it, except that Gilleen’s red head now decorates the swellest cab on the division, and that he never fought for his title after that night--he never had to; though, if you feel like questioning it, you can still get plenty of fight, for all that--any of the boys will accommodate you any time. Regan isn’t an artist as a pugilist, but even so it is unwise to take risks--unscientific men by lucky flukes have handed knockouts to their betters. “If Gilleen says so that’s enough, whether it’s so or not, what?” Regan will fling at you. “It’s pretty _good_ blood, ain’t it, no matter what kind it is? Well then--h’m?” IX--MARLEY