"Sure, that's what it is," volunteered a policeman who was keeping the fire lines.
"Were any lives lost?" Smith asked.
"No. Every one got out all right. It didn't start in the hotel. They're very careful, and they have a fine fire drill, anyway. There was plenty of time to warn every one."
Out of the north came a crisp wind. Not content with blowing, as it had done before, Helen's hair about her ears, it also whipped her skirts urgently about her. Smith calculated this wind, and shook his head dubiously.
"Twenty-five miles an hour, I should think," he said. "Rather bad night for a big fire. I wonder if we can get a little closer."
From where they stood it seemed that the fire was in the heart of the block bounded by Court Square, Court, School, and Washington Streets. The north half of this block was occupied chiefly by Black's Hotel, one of the best-known hostelries in New England, and the south half by the newspaper plant of the Boston News and by several smaller buildings. Between the two sections of the block ran a narrow lane known as Williams Court; and at the time when Smith and Helen became spectators, the fire was pouring from every window of the big hotel and proving triumphant over all efforts to keep it from leaping the almost imperceptible southern barrier.
"How long has this been going?" Smith asked the policeman.
"About an hour and a half, I guess. I've been here since quarter to ten."
"Do you suppose we could go through the lines?" Smith inquired. "I've got a New York fire badge."
"All right for you, sir—I'll pass you on it—but not for the lady."