Flash focused his camera in time to get a shot of a fireman who had clambered up the ladder through the black pall of smoke, rescuing the man at the window. Then he rushed over to where the rescue squad was hard at work. As he leaped over a length of flat hose it bulged full of water, writhing and twisting like a great jungle snake.
The heat was searing Flash’s face but he had no awareness of discomfort. Blazing embers dropped at his feet. One burned a hole through his coat. Filled with a wild elation, he snapped picture after picture, reloading his camera as fast as he could.
Lines of hose had been stretched from every available hydrant so that great streams of water could be poured on the fire. Adjoining buildings were blanketed down in the desperate fight to keep them from igniting.
Flash approached the deputy chief who stood by Engine 12, reading a pressure dial.
“Will the coal yards go?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet,” the chief answered shortly. “We expect to save ’em.”
“Is everyone out of the building?”
The chief nodded and strode away.
Flash dropped back to get a long range shot of the blazing building, because he saw that Deems of the Globe was taking a similar picture. It was the first time he had seen the photographer since the night of the Gezzy-Brady fight. Edging close he tried to speak a few words of gratitude for the favor he had received. Deems cut him short.
“Glad to do it,” he said curtly. “But I can’t give you any help on this job. It’s every man for himself.”