Toward the gate they went, for what is so fascinating as a fire?
Kitty took Rosy Posy by the hand, and, mindful of their best clothes, the children didn’t run, but walked quickly to the entrance of their own grounds.
“Where’s the fire?” called King to a man who rushed by.
“Dunno,” was the answer. “Summers down on Bridge Street, I guess. You can see from the corner.”
So, of course, the Maynards went on to the corner of the block, from which point of vantage a much better view of the fire could be had.
It was a real conflagration, and no mistake. Smoke rose in volumes, and occasionally whirls of flame darted up through it. Never before had the children seen such a spectacle.
Thrilling with excitement, they went another block, and then some one passing them cried out, “Why, it’s Simpson’s old tumble-down house! Good thing for the town to have that go!”
“Oh, King!” cried Marjorie, her face white with horror, “it’s Mrs. Simpson’s house! How terrible! We must go and see if we can help them.”
“Sure!” exclaimed King. “Why, Mr. Simpson’s back in the hospital, you know. Whatever will she do, with all those children!”
The Simpsons were a poor family, who were special beneficiaries of the Maynards. Mr. Simpson, after an injury, had recovered sufficiently to leave the hospital, but a relapse had sent him back there again, and his wife, with seven children, had a hard time to get along at all. They lived in a large, but old and dilapidated, frame house in a poor quarter of the town.