Suddenly, down the street, there sounded a shrill whistle, mingled with a rumbling and a clang of bells.
“It’s a fire!” cried several.
“Lightning struck!” exclaimed one or two.
“It was that last smash!” said the man Larry had noticed first. “I thought it did some damage. Here come the engines!”
Up Fifth Avenue dashed the steamers, hose carts, and hook-and-ladder wagons.
“There’s the fire! In that building across the street!” someone said.
Larry looked and saw, coming out of the top story of a big piano warehouse on the opposite side of Fifth Avenue, a volume of black smoke. A number of men, unmindful of the rain, ran out to see the firemen work, and after a little hesitation Larry, who did not mind a wetting, followed.
It was the first time he had ever seen a fire in a big city, and he did not want to miss it. He worked his way through the crowds that quickly gathered until he was almost in front. There he held his place, not minding the rain, which was still falling hard, though not as plentifully as at first.
He saw the firemen run out long lengths of hose, attach them to the steamers, which had already started to pump, and watched the ladder men run out the long runged affairs up which they swarmed to carry the hose to the top stories, where the lightning had started the fire.
Then the water tower was brought into play. Under the power of compressed air the long slender pole of latticed ironwork rose high, carrying several lengths of hose with it. Then the nozzle was pointed toward the top windows, and soon a powerful stream of water was being sent in on the flames, that were making great headway among wood and shavings in the piano place.