He went back to bed, but tossed and tossed, while the light still flickered on the wall.
“It’s strange they don’t put it out,” he thought. “They must have been at work at it two or three hours.”
He rose again and went to the window, but the air was so cold that he dressed himself, his curiosity all the while growing stronger. Taking his shoes in his hand he went softly down to the door, took the spare latch-key from its hook, let himself quietly out, put on his shoes, and slipped down to the front gate.
It was a windy night, with the moon eating up the clouds, and the streets were very quiet. The first sign of excitement was at the gate of the yards, where another fire-engine was just going in.
Fic slipped in beside it and took a short cut across the tracks, between and under the cars, to the other side next the big freight-house, where a fire-engine was pumping water through long lines of black hose on a big tank-car that was all in a blaze on the under side.
The tracks were flooded. Fic balanced himself on a rail and watched the blazing car with a puzzled look. Every time the stream of water fairly struck the center of the flame it flew in every direction in sheets and threads of fire, but always settled back at the bottom of the car.
The division superintendent of the road drove up. Fic knew him by sight, for he lived in Lavenham and went to his church.
“What’s the matter?” the superintendent said, in a high-keyed voice. “Why don’t you put out the fire?”
Three men drew out of the group around the fire-engine and came to the side of the buggy. One was the yardmaster, another the conductor in charge of the train, and the third the fire-chief.
“It’s naphtha,” said the chief. “There’s a leak somewhere in the pipes that lets it down to the fire a little at a time. We can’t get at it for the heat, and the water only scatters it.”