“Reade,” sobbed Frank Danes, “as long as I live I'll never forget your splendid conduct.”
“Shut up!” retorted Tom roughly. “I don't want to have to knock you down again. It might start a riot that no man could quell.”
“Pass the skulking tenderfoot out to us!” implored some of the men on the edge of the crowd, among whom was the man with the spare rope.
“No! We won't disgrace the town with a lynching,” Tom shot back. “Wait until cool judgment has had time to do its work.”
“Bear a hand there!” roared Harry. “Help the firemen to save the next building. Follow me!”
Thus led, the fickle crowd started to the aid of the firemen.
“Come with me, Danes,” whispered Tom hoarsely, sternly. “Keep your distance, however, or I shall lay violent hands on you.”
Once out of the glare of light cast by the burning of the hotel, Tom Reade pointed down a dark side street.
“There's your way, Danes,” whispered Reade. “Skip! Be far from Paloma by daylight—or nothing will save you.”
“Do you consider me responsible for that fire?” faltered Danes.