“The third alarm. Five more companies. I must go!” exclaimed the Chief. “Will you go, Johnny? It may be your chance.”
“And Mazie?” asked Johnny.
“Crowd her in,” grumbled the Chief.
A moment later they were speeding southward.
Down deserted streets they sped, past groups of night prowlers, round corners, by slow-moving milk wagons, their gong ever clearing the way.
“Strange,” murmured the Chief, straining his eyes ahead. “Don’t see much smoke. No blaze. No blaze. Mighty queer.”
Then as they whirled around a corner the whole truth came to him in a flash. He had been tricked. Three alarms had been turned in; three, and every one of them a false alarm! The perpetrator knew what Marshal Neil signed. He knew the call. Before them, lined up for three blocks, was a red row of fire fighting trucks, but no fire.
“It’s a plot,” the Chief muttered through tight set teeth. “I wonder what it means?”
He had not long to wait, for the answer came quickly. This broad area had been cleared of fire fighting equipment that a clean break might be given to another blaze that had been set. Certainly this must be true, for even as they stood there wondering they heard the distant siren of a fire engine.
“It’s the reserves I called up!” the chief exclaimed. “Thank God for them. They have answered the alarm of the real fire. Soon we will all be on our way. Straight ahead!” he exclaimed to his driver.