To reach the corner, rouse the watchman, snatch the key from his sleepy hands, rush back again, and whisk open the iron box was the work of two minutes.
Perfect silence everywhere.
“Look a-here, now,” said Bridget, breathlessly, standing on tiptoe. “I’ve seen ’em do it.”
She pulled the handle once, twice. Then they waited, their hearts beating fiercely. They were off the travelled ways, and no one passed by them. All this time the smoke was creeping up the stairways of the lofty building, and the red fire was quietly devouring yard after yard of wood-work.
Bridget raised her hand to pull the lever for the third and last time—when they both started.
All over the broad, restless, wakeful city, the heavy bells rang out, one following another like echoes. Sick people turned wearily in their beds; babies awoke to bewail their broken naps; men and women stopped at the corners of streets to count the number, and shook their heads.
“Bad place, down by Summer and Chauncey Streets—let’s go!” said one to another.
One—Two—Three—Four—Five——One—Two.
Miss Augusta Vernon consulted her fire-alarm card, which always hung by the sitting-room mantel-piece; then she went to the front window and threw open the blinds. There was a faint flush on the sky, like the coming dawn.
“Dear me!” exclaimed aunt Augusta. “It’s a real fire. And this hot night, too! I do hope they’ll have it out soon, poor fellows!”