Hardly had he walked a dozen paces on that street when there struck his ears a cry that had grown familiar:
“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
“Fire!” he said to himself. “I wonder where now?” He was to know soon enough.
There is something strange about a city street. Though it be deserted from end to end, let one cry of “Fire!” ring out upon its deserted stillness, and within the space of thirty seconds it is thronging with people. It was so now. In a moment the place was swarming with people.
Johnny Thompson did not join the throng. He was far too wise for that. The black bag he carried contained something of vital interest to that smooth villain, Knobs. Knobs would want it back. Nor would he be alone. There might be twenty of his gang in that crowd. For them to surround Johnny and beat him up in such a mob would be a simple enough matter. He would leave no chance for that. Turning, Johnny sped down an alley, crossed a street, shot down a second alley and, reaching the river, he raced along the wall that lined its banks, climbed the bridge, then to the back of a building, paused once more to listen, then climbed the stairs to his room.
“Shook them!” he puffed as he bolted the door and carefully placed the black bag under the bed.
His next move was to throw back the steel blinds to his own windows and to look in the direction of that building on Randolph Street that he had just left.
The sight that met his eyes brought an exclamation to his lips.
“Pant!” he called, “Pant! Wake up! If you want to see a fire that is one, come here!”
Tumbling from the cot where he had been sleeping, Pant stumbled toward the window. Then he, too, stared in wonder.