|LAST night I was awakened by the cry of fire. It was a loud, hoarse
cry, such as a large, adult man might emit from his window on the night
air. The town was not large, and the fire-department, I had been told,
was not so effective as it should have been.
For that reason I arose and carefully dressed myself in order to assist,
if possible. I carefully lowered myself from my room by means of a
staircase which I found concealed in a dark and mysterious corner of the
passage.
On the streets all was confusion. The hoarse cry of fire had been taken
up by others, passed around from one to another, till it had swollen
into a dull roar. The cry of fire in a small town is always a grand
sight.
All along the street in front of Mr. Pendergast's roller rink the
blanched faces of the people could be seen. Men were hurrying to and
fro, knocking the by-standers over in their frantic attempts to get
somewhere else. With great foresight Mr. Pendergast, who had that day
finished painting his roller rink a dull-roan color, removed from the
building the large card which bore the legend