“Oh, I fixed it with Maggie last night. Bribed her to rise early this morn’ and hustle out for a newspaper. She just left it at our door. See, here’s all about the fire, Dick!”
Blessed Jones turned over in bed, jabbed his head halfway under a pillow, and smotheredly droned:
“‘Him that disturbeth the sleep of the righteous let him be condemned to fire and brimstone and let him burn forever.’”
“Oh, you were there, old snooker!” cried Tommy. “You ought to be interested in this report. You were with the gang last night.”
Buckhart stuck his head into the room.
“Read it, Tucker,” he urged.
Thus requested, Tommy read the account of the fire which had destroyed the old warehouse and which was believed beyond question to be the work of incendiaries. Indeed, it was said that the watchman at Gray S. Walpole’s lumber yard had detected two of the firebugs in the act of leaving the basement of the warehouse. According to the statement of Hatch, one of these chaps had been dressed in bright red and looked like the devil himself. The watchman acknowledged that the appearance of this fellow so startled him that he permitted them both to get a flying start, and, in spite of his efforts to run them down, they had managed to avoid him and escaped in the darkness.
Thinking of what had really happened when the watchman saw that crimson-clad figure, Merriwell was compelled to laugh.
“It says here,” said Tommy, “that the old building was fully covered by insurance. I guess the owners are mighty glad it burned.”
“But not the insurance company, Tucker. Of course that fire was an accident and we could prove it, but it’s just as well for us if we can escape getting mixed up in the business. If the fellows are wise, they’ll keep still about it.”