Soon the space before the doomed building is swarming with people running, vociferating, cursing, jesting. Drunken men are there, haggard women, dirty, ragged children, who clap their hands and shout excitedly at this splendid spectacle.
“The flames rise and spread; the door of the closet has fallen in, and now he feels their hot breath.”—[page 234].
It is useless to attempt to save the old tenement; they realize that. But its occupants—They have heard the alarm, and they come out hurriedly, en deshabille, pushing and dragging the children, screaming, and cursing each other and the world.
All on the lower floor are then safe. But the upper floor, and its occupants?
“Fire! fire! fire!”
No signs of life above stairs. No terrified faces at the windows. No flying forms down the rickety stairway. No cries for help from among the fast-spreading flames.
“Fire! fire! fire!”
They hear the tinkle of bells, the gallop of speeding hoofs upon the pavement.