If the Southern depot caught, then the whole Bay quarter, a warren of tinder-box tenements, swarming densely with poor tenants, was in peril. To save the depot was to win the day. But special editions of the newspapers, appearing at 5 o'clock, were only able to announce, under half-column scare-heads, that the result was still in doubt; and when twilight came it was not the sunset glow (for a storm was gathering in the overcast sky) which burnished the factory windows across the harbor till they shone like plates of gold.
CHAPTER II.
MIDNIGHT—ALL'S WELL.
"Accident is out of the question, John Davidson." The hands of the clock were moving toward midnight in Klein's restaurant, but mugs were still clinking, dishes rattling and waiters hurriedly cleansing soiled tables with their towels. The freedom of the saloon had been extended to the victorious fire-fighters, who, after supping with Duke Humphrey, were not at all reluctant to lunch with Commoner Klein.
"A health to Carl Klein," shouted one, tossing a tumblerful high in air.
"Your health!" the place echoed, as the whole group stood up and shouted a rousing toast. They were tough, middle-sized fellows, all of them, of the true fireman's build, which is just a shade taller and broader than a sailor's. The smiling old German hovered near and bowed and rubbed his hands in appreciation. To judge from the girth under his apron, he was himself a worshiper of the worthy trinity, breakfast, dinner and supper, which he served. The two men chattering in low tones at a side table had not stood up or noticed the interruption.
"I can't believe it, McCausland," answered John Davidson, the fire marshal. "There is no motive. It's devilish. It's beneath flesh and blood. Four lives already and heaven knows how many more. It isn't in human kind to do that without a reason."
"Mankind is my kind, too," answered McCausland, pleasantly, but in such a manner as to convey the idea that he was a diver of some experience into the deep-sea depths of human turpitude. "But suppose we look at the status quo. Everybody—Wotherspoon, Chandler and all the others—agreed that the fire must have been going some time when the servant-girl ran out of the house. If her story is to be believed, and she never turned a hair under cross-questioning, you'll allow?"
"The girl's fair spoken, I admit that," answered the marshal.