Over the border

by Morgan Robertson

"Why not sing out?" I asked, in her ear. "It'll stop him."

"Don't you see?" she answered. "I want to catch him in the act, to shock him, overwhelm him—and cure him."

I acquiesced, and we climbed the stairs, making no noise and sensing more strongly as we went the rank smell of kerosene. She led me into the front room, the door of which stood open. All was dark, and there was no significant odor.

"This is his room," she whispered. "He must be in mine, in the rear."

We passed into the hall and peeped into this room. From a lighted house on the next street a faint illumination showed up every corner in it; and there in the middle, stooping low over his work, was George Morton, laying a trail of oil from the nozzle of a can, back and forth across the carpet. This done, he made a neat pile of newspapers against the wall, emptied the can upon it, and applied a match. A nudge from the girl started me and I walked in upon him. He uttered one snarling yell as he glared into my face, then sprang upon me.

I was a strong, healthy man, large of frame, heavy, and well-trained in most forms of personal combat; but I soon realized that I was fighting a maniac. He writhed, twisted, and bent himself, forcing me again and again to change or renew my hold upon him. Even though I held him at arm's length, I could not retain my grip without help from the other hand, and then I would likely feel one or both of his feet on my chest. It was like wrestling with a panther. I shook him, and, flail-like, whirled him around me, but I could not conquer him without hurting him, and this I did not wish to do. As the fight resolved itself into a struggle of endurance, I heard a few broken words from Grace, barely distinguishable above the noise of the scuffle, and a later glance around told me that she was gone.

And still I fought on, endeavoring to master the firebug without hurting him—just why, I have never been able to explain to myself. Possibly, I dimly felt at the time that his sister would not like it, for I spared him the weight of my fist and the throttling clutch that would have ended the fight in a moment, even though his own hands had torn my coat to shreds, and my face was scorched and smeared with kerosene in one of my whirling lunges toward his bonfire. He, too, must have felt the heat, for his snarling utterances took on a note of pain, and for a few moments he struggled in my grasp more furiously than ever; then he paused, became limp in my hands, and seemed to sink down. It was a clever ruse, for no sooner had I relaxed my hold than he broke away and shot out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. I let him go, but looked around; the room was in flames on two sides, while several trails of burning oil traversed the floor.

I believe that some men in my position would have followed him; but I know that any fireman, policeman, soldier, or sailor would have done exactly as I did—remain to put out the fire. I dragged the blankets from the bed, whipped the flames from the walls and windows as I could, and when they were burned beyond use threw the fragments on to the still burning bonfire to smother it. As I labored I heard shouts of "Fire!" in the streets, and welcomed the news that assistance was coming. Then I heard the clatter and clang of the engines and voices and footsteps on the stairs. I whipped away at the flames, and just as I laid the last damaged blanket on the now smouldering fire, a policeman burst into the room and seized me.

"Caught wi' the goods, hev! Stand still," he said. "Stand still, or I'll fan you."

I ceased my momentary struggle with him as firemen came in with hose and an extinguisher, and stopped myself in a half-uttered sentence of explanation. This was a matter of family honor that need not be made public.