“How long will they keep me?” he asked himself. “They can't keep me here forever.”
About six o'clock the door was opened slightly, and a plate of bread and butter was thrust in, together with a glass of cold water. Who brought it up Phil did not know, for the person did not show himself or herself.
Phil ate and drank what was provided, not that he was particularly hungry, but he felt that he must keep up his strength.
“They don't mean to starve me, at any rate,” he reflected. “That is some consolation. While there is life, there is hope.”
A little over an hour passed. It became dark in Phil's prison, but he had no means of lighting the gas. There was a small bed in the room, and he made up his mind that he must sleep there.
All at once there was a confused noise and disturbance. He could not make out what it meant, till above all other sounds he heard the terrible cry of “Fire!”
“Fire! Where is it?” thought Phil.
It was not long before he made a terrible discovery. It was the very house in which he was confined! There was a trampling of feet and a chorus of screams. The smoke penetrated into the room.
“Heavens! Am I to be burned alive!” thought our poor hero.
He jumped up and down on the floor, pounded frantically on the door, and at last the door was broken open by a stalwart fireman, and Phil made his way out, half-suffocated.