All of the Blairs hurried outside where, from the front porch of their home, they could look down main street.
“The truck is stopping in front of the Herald office!” gasped Helen.
Without a word Tom plunged down the hill, running full speed for the office. Helen and her mother followed as quickly as possible.
Main street rapidly filled with excited townspeople and they caught the odor of burning wood as they neared the Herald building. Margaret Stevens ran up to them.
“It doesn’t look bad,” she tried to reassure them, “and the firemen have it under control.”
Helen was so weak from the shock of the fire that she clung to Margaret and her mother for support. Her head reeled as picture thoughts raced through her mind. The threats of Burr Atwell, all of their months of hard work, the expense of the fire, their father’s need for money, Tom’s precautions in moving the circulation list.
Then it was over. The firemen dragged their line of hose from the chemical tank back to the street and they crowded into the smoke-filled rooms. The fire had started near the back door but thanks to the night watchman had been detected before it had gained headway. The week’s supply of print paper was ruined and the two rooms blackened by smoke and splattered with the chemical used to check the flames, but the press and Linotype were undamaged.
Tom wanted to stay and clean up the office but Mrs. Blair insisted that they all return home, herself instructing the night watchman to hire several town laborers to work the rest of the night cleaning up the office.
“That fire was deliberately set,” raged Tom as they walked home. “The fire chief saved the greasy rags he found in the corner of the composing room where it started. Ten more minutes without discovery and we wouldn’t have had a newspaper.”
“Who could have done such a thing?” protested his mother.