“The stand pipes are melted by now,” was the answer. “They tried ’em, but it got too hot. There she goes!”
The flames seemed to make one final leap, as if to reach a higher point in the air than they had yet attained. There was a sound as though a great gun had exploded and the roof, blown off by the heated air inside, and by the gases generated from the burning grain, was scattered into a thousand pieces.
Then, as if satisfied that it had accomplished what it set out to do, the fire died down a little. The top stories of the elevator toppled in, and the mass seemed to crumple up. Owing to the packed heaps of grain it was burning slowly, now that most of the wood work was consumed.
“That’s another blow to Hayward!” spoke a voice so close to Fenn’s ear that the boy started in spite of himself.
“Hush!” cautioned a man, who was beside the one who had first spoken, “some one might hear you.”
“No one knows what I’m talking about,” was the answer. “I guess Hayward will be willing to talk business now. He can’t stand many such losses as this, even if he does own most of Bayville. I understand he didn’t carry much insurance on this grain, as it was stored for quick movement. Now, when I see him—”
The man stopped suddenly, for Fenn was looking right at him. Somehow the youth knew instinctively that he was talking about the Mr. Hayward who had been injured in the auto accident. What could it mean? Why was the speaker glad that the westerner had suffered a loss in the elevator fire? Fenn wanted to hear more.
But the man who had first spoken, said nothing further. He grasped his companion by the arm, and nodded toward Fenn. The other boys were still watching the fire, and were some distance away from Stumpy.
“Were you—” began the first speaker, looking at Fenn, when his companion suddenly drew him back among the crowd.
“Stop! Stop!” Fenn heard him whisper. “I must get hold of him and—”