For, at midnight of the succeeding night, he was awakened by the clang of the city bells. It was a still night, there was little wind, and the tide was calm at the ebb. The alarm was quite distinct and easily counted. One? two? three? Six? One—two—three. Six. Thirty-six. Thirty-six was the call from the business section of the town. This alarm rang in for the board of trade, Angel Alley, the wharves, and certain banks and important shops.
“A fire on the wharves, probably,” thought Bayard; he turned on his pillow; “the fire-boat will reach it in three minutes. It is likely to be some slight affair.”
One—two—three. Six. One—two—three. Six. One-two. One-two. The sounding of the general alarm aroused him thoroughly. He got to the window and flung open the blinds. In the heart of the city, two miles away, a pillar of flame shot straight towards the sky, which hung above it as red as the dashed blood of a mighty slaughter.
At this moment a man came running, and leaned on Mrs. Granite’s fence, looking up through the dark.
“Mr. Bayard! Mr. Bayard!” he called loudly.
“Bob! Is that you? What is it? Where is it?”
“It’s in Angel Alley, sir.”
“Be there in a minute, Bob.”
“But, Mr. Bayard, sir—there’s them as think you’re safer where you be. Job Slip says you stay to home if you love us, Mr. Bayard!”
“Wait for me, Bob,” commanded Bayard. “I’m half dressed now.”