A pall of smoke hung over that part of the works, and it was impossible to see what really had taken place. Men were running from other parts of the plant, and the fire alarm was clanging.
Tom and his father had mapped out a plan for their own private fire company, since the city engine house in Shopton was too far away to be depended on and the Swift plant covered a large space of ground. In this plant many machines, not all of Tom’s invention or his father’s, were turned out and scores of men were employed.
Many of these, realizing the danger as soon as they heard the explosion and listened to the clanging of the fire bell, realized what portended and rushed to their stations. Some hurried toward Tom’s own particular part of the shop with chemical apparatus, others dragged lines of hose into which the water would soon be turned.
“I hope this is nothing serious,” voiced Mr. Trace.
“Bless my spectacles, it looks bad enough!” fairly shouted Mr. Damon, pointing to the thick pall of black smoke. “The whole place is gone, I guess!”
However, it was not quite so serious as that, and a moment later, when a puff of wind blew aside the dark vapor, it was seen that Tom’s small, private experimental building was standing intact. Smoke was pouring from several windows, however, and the shattered glass told its own story. But the smoke was lessening, and this seemed to indicate that the fire was not increasing.
As several of the workmen, bearing portable chemical extinguishers, hurried into the building, Mr. Damon pointed to a plot of grass beneath one of the windows that, Mr. Swift well knew, was the place where Tom had his desk.
“There’s your boy, now!” said the odd character.
Mr. Swift caught his breath sharply, for he beheld the prostrate form of Tom stretched motionless on the sod.
“That’s bad!” murmured Mr. Burch softly, and he had it in mind to tear up the wager agreement as soon as possible.