They turned and turned again. Before them lay the great mass of the Waite Motor Company’s plant, silhouetted against an eye-blasting inferno of roaring flame. The fire seemed to be not in the motor-plant, but to the rear of it.... They turned, made their way through crowds of people, avoided reinforcements of fire apparatus, and arrived at a point where the conflagration lay before them.
“It seems to be a lot of sheds and things,” Hildegarde said. Then, speaking to a police officer, she asked what was burning.
“Temporary buildings of the motor company,” he said. “They were put up this spring as warehouses. They tell me they were filled with motor-trucks for the Allies, hundreds of ’em—and with parts and supplies.”
“Fireworks started it, I suppose,” said Cantor, harshly.
“I don’t know.... Maybe so, but there’s a heap of things happening lately that fireworks hain’t got anythin’ to do with. Them Germans....”
“Nonsense!” said Cantor, vehemently.
“It isn’t nonsense,” Hildegarde said, sharply. “They could lay it on the fireworks. That’s why they did it to-day. I—” She stopped short and bit her lip.
An ambulance came forcing its way through the crowd, to be stopped close beside Hildegarde and Cantor.
“Oh,” she said, “some one’s hurt.... See who it is. Please do.” She turned to the policeman. “Won’t you ask who is hurt, please?”
The officer was obliging. He made his way to the ambulance, assisted in making a path for it to proceed, and then returned to the car.