“That comes of turning a place of business into a resort for loafers. If I owned this store outright there'd be a big sign up somewhere—'When you've transacted your business, think of Home Sweet Home.'”
“I reckon that's a hint,” said Benoni Hill, as he arose and put on his hat. “You won't be troubled with me or my trade in futur'. There are stores in Cottonton jus' as good as this, and the proprietors are gentlemen.”
He left the store, and one by one the “loafers” followed him as no one had the courage to break the silence that fell upon the company after old Mr. Hill's departure.
Mr. Strout, left alone to close up the store, was more angry than ever.
“What cussed fools. I was hitting back at Abner and they thought the coat fit and put it on. They'll come round again. They won't enjoy tramping over to Cottonton for kerosene and molasses.”
The store was lighted by kerosene lamps resting on brackets. It was Mr. Strout's custom to take them down, blow them out, and replace them on the brackets. One was always left burning, as Mr. Strout said “so burglars could see their way round.”
Mr. Strout's anger rose higher and higher and there was no one present upon whom he could expend it. He grasped one of the lamps, but his hold on the glass handle was insecure and it fell to the floor, the lamp breaking, while the burning oil was thrown in every direction. He wished then that some of the “loafers” were present to help him put the fire out. There was no water nearer than the pump in the back yard. He grabbed a pail and started to get some water. He forgot the back-steps and fell headlong. For some minutes he was so dazed that he could do nothing. The glare of the fire lighted up the yard, or he would have had difficulty in filling the pail. When he returned, he saw that the fire was beyond his control. He could not go through the store, so he climbed the back yard fence and made his way to the front of the store crying “Fire” at the top of his voice.
It seemed an age to him, before anyone responded. He felt then the need of friends, neighbours—even “loafers” would have been acceptable.
A bucket brigade formed, but their efforts were unavailing. As the other lamps were exploded by the heat new inflammable material was thrown about. In a quarter of an hour the whole interior was in flames, and in an hour only a grim, black skeleton, lighted up by occasional flashes of flame, remained of Strout and Maxwell's grocery store.
Next morning comment was rife. Mr. Strout had told how the fire was caused but there were unbelievers.