It would have been laughable, and pathetic at the same time, had any one been there to see how anxiously he peered into every corner for signs of danger; scrutinizing the door mats, gravely pausing before tables and desks, giving a comprehensive glance now and then at the ceiling, stepping on tiptoe, and, with eyes as round as saucers, listening as he approached each door. This entire performance he repeated regularly on the quarter-hours, as Farley had told him; his features relaxing into his gleeful chuckle each time, as he found himself in the cosy office, with all well behind him.
Meanwhile the hands of the clock upon the wall crept round in leisurely fashion to nine, half-past, ten; and ’Lijah’s broad, white smile expanded further and further as no Farley appeared.
“He’s done trus’ me lots dis yere night, sho’ly,” he repeated again. “Guess you’s a tol’able good watchman, po’ ole ’Lijah, you is. Hi! dat’s some o’ Miss Rosy’s work, sho’ ’nuff!”
He had finished his quarter-past-ten round, and had been sitting for some time in his straight-backed chair, singing softly to himself, and ruminating on Mars’ George’s manifold virtues and the fair face of his lady, and was watching the clock for the signal of his next survey of the premises, when he noticed a peculiar effect in the upper portion of the room. The ceiling seemed to be going farther and farther away, lifting higher and higher. Was he falling asleep then, after all, like an unfaithful sentinel? He sat bolt upright, rubbed his smarting eyes, and looked up again. The ceiling was almost out of sight. At the same moment the old negro was seized with a violent fit of coughing. He sprang to his feet, trembling in every limb. There was no longer any mystery about it; the room was rapidly filling with smoke, which poured in steadily through the transom over the office door.
’Lijah stood a moment and tried to think. Then he ran, lantern in hand, into the entry and down the stairs, uttering incoherent cries of “O Lor’! O Mars’ George! Look yere, look yere! O ’Lijah, you wuf’less ole—O Lor’, O Lor’!” Scrambling, tumbling, sliding, he found his way down through the stifling smoke, which boiled up in an ever increasing volume from the basement. Reaching the street, ’Lijah ran plump into a policeman, and, his teeth chattering with terror, tried to tell him what was the matter.
But his haste was needless, for even while he spoke, deep voices were repeating ’Lijah’s message in solemn, measured tones, above the roofs all over the city; a low roar, growing louder each instant, arose far down the street. Louder and louder, mingled with a jangling of gongs and dismal blowing of horns, as the mighty foes of the fire gathered to their work. Suddenly the crowd, which seemed to have sprung up out of the ground, fled to right and left. A magnificent pair of black horses dashed fiercely up before the store, leaving behind them a long trail of floating sparks from the beautiful, glistening creature of brass and steel at their backs. Then came one piece of apparatus after another, engines, ladders and hose. In the confusion and uproar of their arrival, the policeman had quite forgotten the trembling old black man and his lantern. Now he looked around and saw him crowding his way toward the store, from which tongues of flame began to dart viciously.
“Come back there!” shouted the officer sternly, rushing upon ’Lijah and jerking him backward so that he nearly fell. “Don’t you see the stairway’s all on fire?”
“B-b-but Mars’ George done trus’”—