The deep-toned bell in the town hall was striking twelve. It was a still, overcast night, with a mild breeze blowing up from the head of Lake Michigan. Three men stood at the gate of the yards talking in low tones, somewhat oppressed, perhaps, by the silence. Before them, a little way, was the white circle thrown by the electric light over the bridge; behind were the great dim piles of lumber with the narrow alleys between, now black as the sky, and carpeted as they were with chips and shavings, as silent beneath the foot as velvet. The only noise came, in the intervals between words, from the two steamers that lay breathing softly alongside the wharf.

“What you doin' on watch, Du Bois? Changed your job?”

“No; Mr. Halloran asked me to go on to-night. He says it's time we had some good men down here.”

“Aw, go on!”

“Say, Runyon, who's that on the bridge?”

All three watched a moment.

“Dunno 'im. Throw your lantern on 'im when he goes by.”

But the fellow turned in at the gate.

“Who's this?”

“I'm George Bigelow. Mr. Halloran said I could go on watch at twelve.”

“Bigelow ain't a very safe name around here, sonny. How about it, Du Bois?”

“It's all right, I guess. He's the new lumber-checker.” They all laughed. “You understand, don't you, boy, that if a man's caught sleeping or off his post he gets shot?”

“Why—why———”

“Don't let 'im scare you, sonny. He's the lazy beggar 'imself. Say, Du Bois, I thought I saw a tramp hanging around about an hour ago. If you want to look through the yards once more with me I'll stay for it.”

“Take the boy. It'll learn him the ropes. Run along, boy.”

“Good-night, there.”

“Good-night, Runyon. I won't wait.”

They separated, one man hurrying off for home and a bed, Du Bois lingering at the gate for a look up and down the line of the fence; Runyon and George, their lanterns darkened, slipping stealthily away into the shadow.

“I seen somethin' over there by the mill,” said Runyon, in a subdued voice, “like it was a tramp that had dumb the fence by the bridge and was sneakin' along the bank. Here, now, hold on a minute,”—he caught the boy's arm—“I was a-standin' right here. Now look down between them piles—past the mill. See that little strip o' the river where the bridge light's a-shinin'? It looked to me like somethin' black went acrost it.”

They went on, giving a quarter of an hour to winding through the alleys, throwing a light into every dark corner. “A feller can't be expected to see everything—not in yards as big as these here. We needn't go out around the P'int. I guess there ain't nothin'. Here's Du Bois a-waitin' by the Number One. I'll leave you with him. You got a whistle, ain't you?”

“Yes; Mr. Halloran gave me one.”

“You know about it? If you blow, it means fire. So don't get gay with it.”

“Hallo, there,” said Du Bois, as they joined him on the wharf in the little patch of light that fell from the steamer's engine-room. “You're purty poor. Where's your tramp?”

“He wasn't to home. We 'lowed we'd call again. So long.”

“So long, there.”

The engine-room was snug and comfortable, a capital headquarters for patrol duty. So the old Inspector took immediate precedence of his associate. “Now, young man, we'll have to break you in first thing. You better go over and patrol the fence f'r'n hour. Then you come back here and report. Be kind o' cautiouslike about your whistle.”

“I don't know———”

“No, I guess you don't—not such a dam sight. What's the matter? What you waitin' f'r?”

“Why—when we was going around the yards, he said he guessed we wouldn't go out as fur's the Point—and I thought mebbe I'd go now, jes so's to be sure.”

“So you've took to thinkin', eh? I s'pose you was a-thinkin' you'd send me over to the fence.”

“No, I didn't mean to send you, but I thought mebbe———”

“Git along with you. You talk too much. You make me sick.” And the Inspector, with a chuckle, made slowly toward the gate, leaving the boy to his own resources.

George walked to the end of the wharf and stood a moment, debating whether to keep on along the bank or to turn in among the lumber-piles. He decided on the latter course and crowded through, with the help of his lantern, by crawling over and under the projecting ends of planks between two huge piles. This brought him into an alley that led, with one turn, to the narrow space of open ground at the end of the peninsula. He closed his lantern and felt his way along. He had nearly reached the turn, he thought, when it was suddenly revealed to him by a light flickering on the lumber. He stopped short and held his breath. The light was growing rapidly. He rushed forward around the turn—and again he stopped. A blaze that had evidently started at the base of a pile of inch stuff was now curling upward, was already half way up to the top; and it crackled ominously as it wreathed around the thin, resinous boards. Standing a little way off at the edge of the bank, looking stupidly at the fire, was the worst specimen from the land of trampdom George had ever seen. His clothing hung about him in rags, his hair and beard were grizzled and matted, his face was red; and his whole body seemed to tremble as if from a nervous affection. He looked up frantically, called out something in a husky voice and held up a blackened clay pipe, then, on an impulse, he dropped the pipe, turned and dove out into the river. There was a splash, the firelight glistened for an instant on the spray, and he had disappeared.

George remembered his whistle and blew it sharply half a dozen times His first thought was to turn back to the steamer, and he had taken a few steps when a shout told him that his signal was heard, that probably the fire could be seen now, for it was already licking at the topmost boards; and so he threw his lantern away and took a running dive off the bank.

Du Bois, walking slowly, had nearly reached the gate when he heard George's whistle. “The boy's crazy,” he muttered. “Wonder they wouldn't give us unweaned infants f'r patrol.” He looked down the centre roadway, but could see no light. However, his duty was obvious, and he turned and ran back to the wharf, growling as he went. The men were aroused on both steamers. As he passed the Number Two he saw the hands dragging out a coil of hose with the nozzle ready attached. On the upper deck of the Number One Captain Craig, with a pair of trousers hastily drawn on and his nightgown partly tucked in at the waist, was leaning on the rail and peering out over the yards. The deckhouse door was open, throwing the light on him. In the fainter light, on the main deck, MacGregor was hanging out.

“How is it, Cap'n?” he was calling.

The Captain made a sign of impatience, straightened up and shaded his eyes with one hand to shut off the light from the steamer; then gave a shout, and pointing toward the end of the peninsula, he plunged into the wheel-house and pulled the whistle-cord. MacGregor disappeared in the engine-room.

At the moment Du Bois was midway between the two steamers running along the wharf. He stopped now and retraced a few steps. “Hi, there!” he called to the men who were at work on the Number Two, “uncouple that hose and bring 'er up to the Number One.”

“What for?” asked some one.

“What for? You—you——— Hi, Cap'n Craig! I'm a-bringin' up the Number Two's line—— Will you have yours uncoupled for us? Now, you louts, gimme a hold o' the line. All together, now! Heave f'r it! Over the rail with 'er! Lay hold now, lively! Did you think you was a-sprinklin' the front yard an the tulip-bed? Ryan, if you fall over them feet of yourn again I'll be darned if I don't soak you. All together, now!— right in the solar plexus, b' th' divvel. Now heave! HEAVE! What's the trouble, there. Damn that Ryan! Say, you've got more feet to the square inch than any man a-walkin'. Here she is, Cap'n. Take off that nozzle, one o' you, while I couple 'er. Hold on, Robbie, we'll holler when we want water. Jest heave that Ryan overboard, a couple o' you. All right, Cap'n. Will we take the nozzle? Here we go, now! Run 'er out! Quick, there———You're the craziest lot o' hare-lipped bungholes I ever see!”

They were stretching out the hose to its fullest extent, but they were still some distance from the fire that now was roaring and crackling before them. Already they could hear the wind, swelling from a night breeze; it was whipping the flames into madness.

“Hi! Robbie! Let 'er go! Pass the word there Let 'er go!”

The men shouted; MacGregor responded; the flat line of hose swelled and writhed as the water was forced through. “Hold hard, Cap'n!” The nozzle was almost wrenched from their hands; the stream rushed out and curved high over the lumber.

“Are we a-gettin' at it?”

“I don't think so. I can't see. Here, work out into the roadway.”

“Lord, no, we ain't reachin' 'er by three rods. An' she's a-burnin' to beat the yellow devils. What's the matter with the boys? Damn it, they must think we're a-doin' it f'r fun! This ain't no Fourth o' July pyrotechnics.”

“They'll be here. It's not much more'n a minute since George signaled.”

“There's some more of the boys, I think.”

“I can't see much—this light's in my eyes. It's no use trying to reach it. Here, let's wet down these here piles. That's good. Now hold her there.”

“Gettin' pretty hot here, Cap'n.”

“Can't help that. It'll be hotter before we get through. Have an eye out to see that we don't get cut off behind. Here come the buckets.”

“Here you are, boys—this way! How many is they of you?”

“I dunno—about a dozen, I guess. The boys is comin' right in.”

“Form a line here along the road. If you keep your clothes wet there's no danger, I guess. Stir along, now. Mr. Halloran come?”

“Not yet. Mr. Crosman's couplin' up the yard hose an' he'll be along here'n a minute.”

The fire was giving rise to the wind; the wind was lashing the fire. The crackling was loud now; the roar made it hard to talk. As they worked and watched a gust of wind came sweeping across the harbour, and catching up the top row of boards from an exposed pile, it tossed them, burning, high in the air. The sparks were flying high, coursing the length of the yards, some falling far beyond. Men were pouring into the yards. Somewhere across the river the town fire-engine was clanging out toward the bridge.

A man, hatless, in a purple sweater, carrying a tin pail in each hand, came running through the gate and down the central roadway. Some one shouted “Here he comes!” and here and there other men, working with hose or bucket, heard the shout and caught it up for sheer excitement, heedless of the cause.

“What's that?” said Du Bois. “It's all clear behind, ain't it? We ain't cut off?”

“Oh, no; we aren't cut off.”

“Say, Cap'n, I can't stand this; let's drop back a step or so. Lord knows we ain't doin' much good here. See her burn! I guess it's all day with Higginson & Company. Here come the fire boys—I see a helmet back there————No, they've quit. They're a-runnin' back, an' draggin' their hose with 'em. Who's this here a-comin' f'r us?”

“I don't know; I can't see.”

“It's himself—it's Mr. Halloran. Hi! What's that?”