“You can't get a ladder up on any part of that wall to the third floor,” called the chief of the fire department hoarsely, as he broke through a thick veil of smoke. “You'll have to try the rear.”
“Where are Reade and Hazelton?” called a voice.
“Reade!”
“Hazelton!”
There was no answer. A hundred men turned, looking blankly at their nearest fellows.
“They've gone down in the flames!” called another voice.
“Reade and Hazelton have lost their lives!”
“That'll make their enemies happy!” groaned one man, and other voices took it up.
“Carter,” shouted one big man, running to the proprietor, “if this blaze is the work of a fire-bug, then look for Reade and Hazelton's enemies. They have the most to gain by the death of those young fellows!”
A hoarse yell went up from the crowd. All of a sudden it seemed plain to every man present that the hatred for Tom and Harry in certain quarters fully accounted for the fire.