Like a red streak in the night we flew up that avenue, turned into Fourteenth Street on two wheels, and at last were on Sixth Avenue. With a jerk and a skid we stopped. There were the engines, the hose-carts, the hook-and-ladders, the salvage corps, the police establishing fire lines-everything. But where was the fire?
The crowd indicated where it ought to be - it was Stacey's. Firemen and policemen were entering the huge building. McCormick shouldered in after them, and we followed.
"Who turned in the alarm?" he asked as we mounted the stairs with the others.
"I did," replied a night watchman on the third landing. "Saw a light in the office on the third floor back - something blazing. But it seems to be out now."
We had at last come to the office. It was dark and deserted, yet with the lanterns we could see the floor of the largest room littered with torn books and ledgers.
Kennedy caught his foot in something. It was a loose wire on the floor. He followed it. It led to an electric-light socket, where it was attached.
"Can't you turn on the lights?" shouted McCormick to the watchman.
"Not here. They're turned on from downstairs, and they're off for the night. I'll go down if you want me to and -"
"No," roared Kennedy. "Stay where you are until I follow the wire to the other end."
At last we came to a little office partitioned off from the main room. Kennedy carefully opened the door. One whiff of the air from it was sufficient. He banged the door shut again.