“Look o’ that!” cried Bridget.
“See!” cried Pet at the same moment; and they both pointed to the third story of a high granite block across the street. One of the windows was slightly open, and through this narrow space a delicate curl of blue smoke floated softly out, laughed noiselessly to itself, and disappeared. They could hardly have seen it at all, but for the powerful electric light upon the corner. Another puff of smoke, and another; then a steady stream, growing blacker and larger every moment. A faint glow, reflected from somewhere inside, shone upon the window panes.
“What shall we do?” cried Pet; “it’s all on fire, and nobody knows!” Instinctively she looked at Bridget for an answer. Somehow the difference between herself and the ragged little Irish girl did not seem so great just then.
The fire had broken out near the place where the great fire of 1872 started. Each of the girls could remember dimly that awful night of red skies and glittering steeples. The massive blocks had been rebuilt, business had rolled through the streets once more, property of value untold lay piled away in those great warehouses on every side, and only these two slender, wide-eyed girls knew of that ugly black smoke, with its gleaming tongues of flame, gliding about over counter and shelf, as Pet had seen the rat, a few minutes before.
“Sure we must give the alar-r-m,” said Bridget, hurriedly, gathering the faded shawl about her neck.
“But I don’t know how. Do you?”
“Don’t I? You jist come along wid me—run, now!”
They almost flew down the street, dainty shoes and bare brown feet side by side.
“Here’s the box,” panted Bridget, pausing suddenly before an iron box attached to a telegraph pole. “Can yer read where it says the key is?”
Pet read: “Key at Faxon’s Building, corner of Bedford and Summer Streets.”