“Isn't there some method of back-firing?”
“It's too late to try that, and, with this wind blowing, it would have been too big a risk.”
He glanced moodily across the town to the north, where the black cloud hung low in the sky. He added:
“I have told my wife to keep the young ones in, no matter what happens. But Lord! they will be about as well off one place as another, when it comes to the pinch.”
“I suppose so,” agreed the doctor. “I am at a loss to know what precautions to take to insure the safety of Mrs. Emory and my daughter.”
It was only four o'clock, but it was already quite dark in the town—a strange half-light that twisted the accustomed shape of things. The air was close, stifling; and the wind, which blew in heavy gusts, was like the breath from a furnace. The sombre twilight carried with it a horrible sense of depression. Every sound in nature was stilled; silence reigned supreme. It was the expectant hush of each living thing.
The three men stepped out on the platform. Holt and the doctor were still mopping their faces with their limp handkerchiefs. McClintock was fanning himself with his straw hat. When they spoke they unconsciously dropped their voices to a whisper.
“Those families in the North End should move out of their homes,” said the doctor. “If they wait until the fire gets here, they will save nothing but what they have on their backs.”
“Yes, and the houses ought to come down,” added McClintock. “There's where the fire will get its first grip on the town, and then Heaven help us!”
Night came, and so imminent seemed the danger that Antioch was roused to something like activity.