  The strain on Mazie’s arms as she let herself down the rope which hung from the window of the burning building seemed greater than she could bear; but with the grim determination of near despair she worked her way down, hand over hand, hand over hand. The palms of her hands burned like fire. In spite of her greatest efforts her hands slipped a little, an inch here, an inch there, and the effect of these slips was like the grasping of a red hot iron. One window she passed in safety, another and another. As she reached the sill of the fourth her feet touched it. With a dizzy faintness she steadied herself there and looked down. The sight that met her eyes was appalling. The window directly under her belched forth a sudden burst of red flame. Then, as the wind shifted, the flames were sucked in again. Was there hope in that? No. The rope had caught fire! Clinging desperately to her place, she hoped for a clearer moment of consciousness—and was granted it. Calmly she looked down. What was to be done? She dared not pass that window. A sudden burst of flame would destroy her. Besides, she could not. The rope was all but burned in two. For a time, because of the smoke, she could not see below. Then of a sudden it cleared and she saw firemen ranged around a white circle directly under her. “A net,” she breathed. At the same instant she heard Johnny Thompson’s booming voice: “Go down the rope as far as you dare, then drop.” “Drop?” she echoed, “how can I?” Then, as if to mock her, smoke shut off her view and in the center of the smoke were darting red flames. “I can, and I will!” she breathed through tight set teeth. With hands that ached she gripped the rope and began once more that agonizing hand over hand descent. Having gone as far as she dared, she dangled for ten seconds in midair. At that instant she caught the sound of Johnny’s voice: “It’s all right, Mazie. Drop!” He could not see her, but he knew she was there. A lump rose and stuck in her throat. Then, with a little upward swing of her feet, she let go. It was all over in one wild instant. Smoke, fire, a mad rush, then a sudden springy shock, followed by an upward toss, a second bump, and then Johnny Thompson was helping her support herself on her unsteady feet. “That,” said Johnny, “was a very narrow squeak.” Hardly had Johnny led Mazie to the emergency wagon, where her hands were treated and bandaged, than his mind was once more at work on his problem—the origin of this fire and of all those other fires. It was not that he was unmindful of the welfare of his friend—Johnny was one of the best of friends—but the problem was assuming gigantic proportions. But for the fireproof building standing directly in its way, this very fire, Marshal Neil had assured him, would have swept across the city for a mile and would have left ten thousand homeless ones in its wake. “The man who sets these fires,” Johnny said to himself savagely, “has no heart, and no sense. What could be his motive? What could the city have done to him bad enough to deserve such a revenge? What could the people of the city have done? Somehow, somewhere, we must find him!” He thought of the pink-eyed man. In the excitement of the rescue he had lost him. Nor could he find him now, though he searched diligently for an hour. “I’ll visit his place down there by the river,” he told himself. “I may discover something there.” He had given up the search and, having returned to Mazie’s side, was standing watching the firemen as they battled with the blaze which at last was giving way before them. Then he noticed a man within the lines who did not wear a fireman’s uniform. “Queer looking chap,” he whispered to Mazie, pointing as he spoke. The man did look queer. He was an extraordinarily tall man and stooped almost to the point of deformity. His nose was large and hooked like a beak. He limped slightly as he walked. His clothing fitted loosely. His stiff hat was dented in three places. “See here, you!” said a policeman, stepping up to him, “you can’t stay inside the line.” “Dot’s all right, mister.” The man showed his white teeth in a grin, but it wasn’t a pleasant grin. “You’ll have to go outside the line.” “Dot’s fair enough, mister.” The man moved away. As he passed Johnny and Mazie he shot them a piercing glance. Even after he had gone back to the line of staring spectators, Johnny felt that his gaze held something of hatred for him. What was the meaning of that look? How had the man gotten within the lines, where only firemen were allowed? What had he wanted there? He resolved to keep an eye out for that man in the future. It was well that he did—very well indeed. After seeing the fire under control and putting Mazie in a taxi, Johnny went directly down to the river front. After following a narrow walk at the river’s brink for some little distance, he stopped to flatten himself against the wall close to the door. “This is the place,” he whispered to himself. The spot he occupied was completely in shadows. The night was dark. The uncertain light from the distant bridge lamps did not reach him. A person standing ten feet away could not have seen him. He was at the entrance to the building which he supposed to be occupied by the pink-eyed man. He had hurried to the place as rapidly as possible in the hope that the man was still out and that returning to his lair he might reveal something of himself. As Johnny stood there in the shadows he could catch the gleam of reflected light on the surface of the river. The sight charmed him. A slow, deep, dirty, sullen sort of stream, was that river. Flowing between walls of brick, stone and cement, where once it had meandered across a great sweep of marshes, it seemed a prisoner chafing at his bonds. As Johnny pictured the marshes, whose rushes had waved over the very spot where he now stood, he thought of other marshes south of the city where in hours of idleness, or at times when he wished to think unmolested, he at times poked a flat-bottomed boat down the narrow channels that ran between the rushes. “It’s a great place to think things through,” he told himself. “If nothing comes of this I’ll go down there to-morrow afternoon. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll sleep till noon, then catch the twelve-thirty train out there.” For an hour he waited there in the darkness. Then, growing restless, he gave up hope of the man’s return and decided to do a little investigating. Drawing a small flashlight from his pocket he lighted his way down a narrow passage that lay between this building and the one next to it. On this side, rather high up, he discovered a small, square window, but large enough to let a person through. Down the passage he saw two discarded packing boxes. Working silently, he put one box on the other, then climbed on top. He was now on a level with the window. Flashing his light on the panes, he found them too dirty to see through. Laying his flashlight on the top of the box, he tried the window and to his surprise found it unfastened. It swung in at his touch like a door on hinges. At the same moment he felt a slight movement at his knee, then heard a thud. “My flashlight!” he grumbled. “Rolled off. Just have a feel inside anyway.” Swinging his feet over the sill, he sat there for a moment thinking. Should he enter. If he did, what would he discover? Would he be in danger? To his surprise he found that his feet touched something and without thinking much of what he was doing he stood up. The next instant, with a rolling and a crashing that was appalling, the whole world appeared to sink and go thundering down beneath him. A moment later, his nostrils filled with dust and with something resting on his chest, he lay quite still and listened. He caught a faint sound but concluded it was only scurrying wharf rats. After that the place was so quiet that he fancied he could hear the settling of the dust. What had happened? What was this on his chest? He laughed silently to himself as he put out a hand to touch it. A barrel—that was all it was, an empty barrel. He sensed what had happened in an instant. He had stood upon the top of a pyramid of empty barrels. The bottom of the pyramid had caved in and the whole heap had gone thundering, carrying Johnny along. Two minutes later he was stealing out of the passage. He had had quite enough of that place for one night. Three o’clock next day found him in the center of a marsh whose dark waving bullrushes stretched away for a mile or more in every direction. With his coat for a pillow he lay sprawled out the length of his flat bottomed boat. A pair of oars and long pole lay at his side. These would bring him back to shore when he chose to come. A cold leg of chicken, a swiss cheese sandwich, a piece of apple pie and a bottle of milk would appease hunger when hunger came. He was at peace with the world and quite prepared to solve all the problems of the universe with which he had anything definite to do. It was a dreamy day. White clouds moved slowly across the sky. Cobwebs floated in air. Now and again a gentle breeze made a softly sighing sound in the rushes. Just as he was dreaming himself off into a cat nap a dark shadow passed over him, then broke suddenly into a hundred little shadows that were not shadows at all. Surprised by this phenomena, which he had felt rather than seen, he opened his eyes. What he saw was a large flock of black birds. Contrary to their usually noisy custom, as if to avoid disturbing the Sabbath quiet of the place, they settled every one upon a swaying bullrush without so much as a single “O-ka-lee.” “Good old birds!” Johnny sighed. And well he might, for beyond doubt they had been directed there by the all seeing eye that they might, in a very short time, be instrumental in saving his life—or at least in giving him a fighting chance. Knowing nothing of this, he settled back into his place and once more closed his eyes. These nights of fire chasing had cost him much sleep. This time he had fallen quite asleep when, with a start, he found himself sitting bolt upright. It was the action of the birds that had wakened him. With a shrill cry of alarm the birds had leaped from their swaying perches and had flown away. “Now I wonder—” Johnny murmured to himself. He was given scarcely ten seconds to wonder, for of a sudden a shot rang out and a bullet whizzed so close to his cheek that he felt the sting of it. “That was meant for me!” Johnny breathed tensely. The next instant he lay flat on his back, his trembling hands gripping the pole. “Got to get out of here,” he thought. “Got to get out quick, and got to do it lying down.” Even as the pole silently touched the water, then sank to grip the bottom, he speculated on his chance of escape. He was unarmed. At times he had brought a shot gun to the marsh. Not to-day. There were no ducks—to early in the season. “Only chance is to lose him,” was his mental comment as he drove the boat forward into the channel. At the same time he felt an almost uncontrollable desire to see the face of the man who had fired the shot. He had a notion that were he an artist he could paint the man’s picture, even though he did not see him. In this he probably was mistaken. |
|
