The boys soon found themselves mixed up in another part of the crowd, that had, apparently, come down a side street leading to the lake front. They had some trouble disengaging themselves from it, and, when they again had a fairly clear street to run through, they were some distance from the fire.
“Did we lose ’em?” asked Fenn, panting from the run.
“What? Who?” asked Frank, who did not exactly understand the cause for the sudden retreat.
“Those two—pickpockets,” replied Fenn, not knowing exactly how to classify the strange men.
“Here comes a couple of fellows on the run,” said Ned. “I guess they’re still after us. Let’s wait and ask what they want. They haven’t any right to follow us.”
“No, no!” urged Fenn. “Come on back to the steamer.”
He seemed so much in earnest that his chums did not stop to ask questions, but increased their speed. Just as they reached the wharf, at the end of which the Modoc was tied, another fire engine, hastening to the elevator blaze, dashed by.
There was a quick clanging of the gong, and a shrill screech from the whistle. It was instantly followed by a shout.
“The engine struck one of the men!” cried Frank, looking back. “He’s knocked down! Run over I guess! Come on back!”
The boys hesitated. They did not want to leave an injured man, even if he and his companion had been pursuing them. The street, at this point, was deserted, save for the two strangers. The engine did not stop, the horses being urged on by the driver, who did not want to have the reputation of arriving last at the conflagration.