SAFE AT HOME
In the meantime alarms had gone in. At the central fire station the third
alarm came in before the megaphone had repeated the second. Clanging and
screeching, forcing their way down streets swarming with people, the
firefighters came. These ranged themselves along the outer walls of that
famous place of play and mirth. No attempt was made to save Forest City.
It was useless. The home of riotous joy was doomed. All the firemen could
hope to do was to beat back the flames and prevent them from spreading to
other parts of the city.
Long after the last structure of the vanished “City” had gone crashing
down and the great throngs had crept away to their homes, a solitary
figure stood in a dark recess between two buildings, watching the heaps
of red ruin and desolation.
A short, sturdy fellow, he stood there hatless, and as the heat from the
fire played upon his clothes they appeared to smoke, but it was only
steam.
His keen eyes, for the most part watching the center of the fire swept
area, now and again went roving up and down the outer lines as if
searching for someone.
And then, as if fire were not enough, from the sky there came a sudden
deluge of rain. One of those sudden torrents that come sweeping up from
the lake in summer, it passed as quickly as it came, but in its wake it
left black, smouldering desolation.
The hatless figure had moved to a place of shelter, but as the storm
passed he came out again and stood staring at the ruins. As he stood
there a shudder shook his frame. It was indeed a thing to shudder at. Two
hours before, twenty thousand joyous mortals had rioted there, and now
only charcoal and ashes marked its place, while above it all there loomed
a blackened and twisted spectre which had once been the Ferris wheel.
“I knew it was doomed,” he murmured at last, “knew it days ago. If only I
had got him in time! But now, please God, it is over. There will be no
others of this kind.”
At that he turned and walked rapidly away.
Tillie McFadden was the first to arrive at Mazie’s home; indeed, she
arrived before Mazie. Mazie found her curled up on a couch in the corner,
fast asleep. Her hands were scratched and bruised, there were tear stains
on her cheeks, but for all this she slept the peaceful sleep of a child.
Mazie felt an almost uncontrollable desire to waken her, to ask her what
had befallen her, what she had seen of the fire, and what had become of
Pant. She conquered this desire, to murmur as she spread a blanket over
the sleeping girl:
“No. Why waken her to the horror of it all? A long sleep, and she will
have forgotten it. Oh, to be a little child again!”
At that she sat down to anxiously await news from her comrades.
In half an hour Pant arrived. As Mazie opened the door he came slouching
in without so much as looking at her. That was Pant’s way. But to-night
he moved as one in a trance, or perhaps like one who had travelled so far
against the wind in a snowstorm that his senses had become so benumbed
that he no longer thinks clearly.
It was not a cold night, but Mazie had kindled a little fire in the
grate. Without speaking, Pant found a seat by that fire. At once he
appeared to fall into a doze.
When the girl touched his arm to offer him a steaming drink he started as
from a dream.
After he had gulped down the drink he appeared more alive.
“I carried her down,” he grumbled, half to himself. “Gar! That was hard!
We landed on the ground. Then we ran for it, and in the crowd I lost her.
Do you think I will see her again?”
“See who?” asked Mazie.
“The Gypsy girl.”
“Who is she?”
“Why, don’t you know? But of course you wouldn’t. She—she’s the one who
saved my life and I—I carried her off the Ferris wheel. She would have
burned. The car burned before we touched the ground.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mazie. “Then you were the one who performed that
marvelous feat on the wheel? I might have known. No one else could have
done that.”
“You—saw us?”
“Yes. But tell me about that other time, the time the girl saved your
life.”
Pant told her the story.
“Do you think I’ll ever see her again?” he asked eagerly as he finished.
“You can’t tell,” said Mazie slowly, “you never know. It’s a strange
world we live in. There are a hundred million of people and more, in our
land. How many do you know? A few. There are eight miles of homes between
our house and the heart of the city. Walk the whole distance, eight
miles, twelve blocks to the mile, twenty homes to the block, probably two
thousand homes. Ten thousand people live in those homes. How many of them
do you know? None, perhaps. We live in little worlds of our own. Our
little worlds are like ships at sea. We meet and pass others, like ships
that pass in the night. You deserted your little world for a night and
entered the Gypsy girl’s world. She left hers for a night and entered
yours. Now she’s gone back to hers and you to yours. Will you meet again?
Why should you?”
“Sure enough, why should we?” echoed Pant.
“Someone at the door!” exclaimed Pant.
Mazie was so overjoyed at sight of the one she found at the door that it
was with difficulty that she refrained from throwing her arms about his
neck. It was Johnny.
His story was soon told. His dive from the lower balcony of the tower had
been successful. Having landed in the water without so much as being
stunned, he had done the Australian crawl to the far end of the pool
where was a landing. There he had leaped to his feet and gone racing
away. Scarcely a moment had elapsed after he reached a point of safety,
when the tower came crashing down on the very spot where he had stood.
Having seen the leap of the man he had followed into the tower, he had
watched to see if by any miracle of circumstance he might have landed in
the pool and followed him to safety. Since this did not seem humanly
possible, he had given the man up for lost, but had lingered about the
scene until the torrent had reduced the fire to charcoal. Then he had
come away.
“Well, here we all are, safe and well,” smiled Mazie.
“And the firebug is dead,” said Johnny.
“How do you know that?” Pant challenged.
“I watched the burning pile until it was done. I tell you he was killed
by the fall, crushed by the building that came crashing down upon him. He
should be dead enough from all that.”
“But how do you know he was the firebug?” persisted Pant. “You can’t
really prove it.”
“I can,” said Johnny positively, “and to-morrow I will.”