CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
FIRE! FIRE!
Within a minute or two Martin’s mind was taken off the fate of the Indian boy by something much more actual and immediate. On turning the corner he was aware that there were many more people in the streets than was usual at that hour on Sunday morning. They were all hurrying in one direction—the same direction as himself. There was excitement in their looks and in the way they spoke to one another; some appeared to be asking eager questions which those they addressed were in too great haste to answer.
He caught the word Fire!
“Is there a fire? Where is it?” he asked a lad in a ’prentice’s cap who was trotting over the cobblestones.
“London Bridge,” panted the lad, and ran on.
Martin began to run too. The crowd grew thicker; from every street and lane poured men and boys, and a few women, some only half dressed, all excited, all eager. From mouth to mouth ran the terrible word Fire! and as the throng swelled their pace quickened, and their cries, mingling with the clatter of their shoes, raised a din that strangely disturbed the Sabbath quiet of the bright morning.
“It must be a big fire,” thought Martin, and he remembered hearing Gollop speak of a fire on London Bridge when he was a boy, which had burned all night and destroyed more than forty houses.
“Where is it? Where is it?”