“Whoever is in charge, then!” The man turned. “Hey! Kelly! Here’s a volunteer.”
Kelly walked up in his fire helmet. He had been bellowing orders about the attachment of hose. “Get out of here!”
“I work here. One of the—the bosses. I’ll show you what to do—”
“ You’ll show me what to do!”
“Listen! The place is jammed with chemicals. Inflammables.” He saw the man’s contempt. “Gunpowder. Dynamite. Damn it, man, with poison gas! Get that crowd back, first. Don’t use water on the center of the fire now! If the shed behind catches—stand clear. You won’t be able to—!”
The man reached out and shoved Jimmie, not with much anger, but almost playfully. “Listen, son. I’m running this fire.”
“Listen yourself, you thick Irish moron! You’re running this fire! Do you want to be responsible for getting half the people in Muskogewan blown off the map?”
“Thick Irish—! Why, you—!” Kelly thought of fighting. Then he was a little scared. He turned to the men near by. “Hey, you! Get the people outside the fence! Everyone of them! Never mind the cars. Tell ’em it’s dynamite that’s about to blow! And have your men stand back. Use chemicals on the main blaze!”
“That’s better!” Jimmie nodded.
“Now. Clear out!”