Vinegar Atts, standing in the pulpit of the Shoofly Church, paused in the midst of a fiery exhortation, listened to the cry of “Fire!” ringing through the settlement.
“Fire!” Vinegar bellowed, and started in a lope for the street, leading all the congregation in the race. They, with the other inhabitants of Dirty-Six, gladly assembled, not at the scene of the fire, but at the engine-house!
“Ring de bell!” a hundred voices bawled.
The bell-rope was gone. Some little piccaninny had needed a rope to tie his dog and had helped himself.
Two or three boys tried to climb the post and ring the bell, but they could not reach it.
“Open de door an’ fotch out de engyne!” the crowd whooped.
Forty men ran their hands into their pockets and brought them out empty. They did not have the key to the door. They had never had the key. The action was mechanical and unconscious.
Who had the key? No one knew. It had been two years since any one had entered the building. The door was locked and the key was lost.
“Bust de door down!” was the next call from the crowd.
Strong shoulders were pressed against the fragile door, and the crash of its timbers was answered by the shouts of the people and the onrush of the crowd. They laid hold upon the rope and pulled the machine to the scene of the fire.