Edward thought he would save Emily. “Our hero’s first thought in danger was for his beloved....”
Emily was dancing about. “Oo, Edward, what a party!” She was sparkling with the pride which one feels on finding oneself present at an event. She was determined to save her hat and threw away blithely several hats which had alighted upon it.
They all arrived on the street, ashamed to have been so tense in their efforts to reach it.
The fire was in a house behind the restaurant. The fire engines were on another street, but a few firemen were keeping a space clear of onlookers on the vacant lots close by. The burning house had its back to them; it was looking away from them towards the bay like one in agony turning away to bite his lips. Like a tongue the smoke hung out of one window and sparks streamed down the smoke. There was a shaking glow on the other side of the house which lighted up the low bending sky. An inverted cone of smoke spun on the roof like a top. Edward felt somehow that the whole scene was upside down, that the sky was his vantage point, and the blowing fire like a flower of the sky. The cold and usual lights of fireless virgin cities round the bay looked incredibly stupid.
He could feel the cold and usual Edward inside him saying, “My party is spoilt by this damned piece of sensationalism. My luck all over.” But, “Oo, what a party,” was still in his ears, and his delighted eyes were full of the fire. He was indifferent to the poems or the twenty-five dollars owing for the futile supper.
The firemen had fat jaws and looked smugly efficient, but if one half closed one’s eyes and looked at them one could imagine they looked like heroes. Pursued by the dull, reluctant snakes of hose they entered the restaurant in order to turn a fusillade of water upon the enemy from an unexpected direction. Looking in through the steamy window of the basement, the delighted guests could see the bright helmets of the heroes going round the table about which so lately plates of commonplace pork and beans had circulated.
“My poem will never be read now,” thought Edward. Heroes had devoured the air in which his poem might have been read.
It was a very vulgar little fire after all. It would only have a line or two in tomorrow’s Examiner. Quite soon it admitted itself beaten, and the perforated house sat blanketed in smoke, looking very sheepish.
“Why, what d’you know about that,” said Mr. Hope, as the first fire-engine negligently moved away with a mild howl.
“Well, Edward, it’s your party,” said Rhoda. “What shall we do about it. I’ll say it’s late and not worth while to settle down again.”