THE TOLL THAT FIRE COLLECTS
Everything in the town of Columbia seemed to be astir. As Frank and Lanky came rapidly down the Harrapin to the landing at the Boat Club they heard the clanging of bells, the tooting of automobile horns, the blowing of steam whistles, and the sound of many voices, all in a babel.
“It is dad’s place, all right!” Frank’s remark was more in the nature of a groan than anything else, though he was not usually given to taking things that way. But, at the end of a day of excitement of several kinds, at the end of a day wherein he had been openly accused of a theft of silverware and jewels by the policeman from headquarters, this outbreak of the fiery monster in his father’s place was calculated to give him a sinking of the heart.
“I believe it is, too,” came from his friend.
They made the landing and tied the boat as quickly as safety would permit, having first drifted it into its house. Frank looked hurriedly about to see that nothing of an inflammable nature was exposed to anything which might start a fire, and then, ready to leave, he threw off the main switch.
Out of the building they went on the shoreward side, and started the dash for the fire.
“Dad’s place, is right!” Frank gasped, as they turned into the main street leading uptown and could see the exact location of the blaze.
Crowds had gathered quickly, the streets were fairly jammed, people being there in all manners of dress, for it was close to the midnight hour and Columbia had, in a very large measure, retired for the night when the summons came.
Lines of hose were lying about the streets, all drawn tight like so many wriggling snakes of huge size, as the two boys neared the square where the fire was.
At the corner below the Allen store, standing close to a fireplug, stood one of the city’s engines, manned by two coal-dust-covered firemen, adding to the pressure of the water line.