Larry Dexter, Reporter/Chapter 13

decided it would be better not to tell his mother anything concerning the blue-handed man, or his connection with the safe-robbery. He felt it would only make her worry, and would be of no particular good.

“I'll solve this thing myself,” thought the young reporter. “I guess Mr. Newton and I can do it.”

So, after a few more questions, and added injunctions to his mother never to let the deed go out of her possession, Larry went to bed.

His mother soon sought her room, and presently the household was quiet. It was now past midnight, and everyone in the tenement seemed to be asleep.

It was rather a quiet neighborhood, and persons living in it were not in the habit of staying up late. The policemen whose beats took in those streets seldom paid a visit to them, for they knew there would not, in all likelihood, be any disturbances.

It grew a little cooler as the night wore on, and people who had been kept awake by the previous hot spell were making up for their lost sleep.

If any persons in the tenement, or apartment, where Larry and his mother lived, had been awake about three o'clock that morning they might have wondered at the sight of two figures stealthily creeping up through the side alleyway that led to the rear cellar door, and the stairs leading to the back doors of the various rooms. Two dark figures there were, moving along, almost as silently as shadows.

Now and then they would stop and whisper together, but, so quiet were their voices and so silent their steps that not a person heard them.

The policeman on the beat came to the head of the street, and looked down it. He saw nothing. How could he see the two figures in the alley? The officer remarked:

“It's all quiet there. What's the use of walking down? I'll just go over to the avenue, and have a chat with Hennessy, and smoke a cigar before the roundsman comes along.”

So the policeman passed away. Meanwhile the two dark figures crept on. In a little while they had reached the cellar door. Cautiously one of the men drew from his pocket a small instrument like a cold chisel or a screwdriver, except that it had no wooden handle. One edge was broad and sharp, like a wedge.

The man went close to the cellar door. He put the edge of the instrument between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. There was a little crackling sound, hardly enough to waken the lightest sleeper.

“Is it all right?” whispered the man who had remained on guard outside the cellar door.

“All right,” was the whisper in return.

“Then go ahead and start the blaze. Don't make much of a one. Put it near the dumbwaiter shaft, so the smoke will go up quickly. Use wet paper. It makes more smoke.”

“Go ahead,” came back, in whispered accents. “I'll do my part, if you do yours. Do you know where they keep the papers?”

“Sure. Under the bed,” was the answer. “The old lady gave it away when I was talking to her to-night, only she never knew it.”

Then, while one of the men made his way into the cellar, the other began creeping up the rear stairs of the apartment house. And, if one had looked closely at the man who was creeping upstairs, they would have seen that his hands were encased in gloves, though it was summer time and quite hot.

Up and up he went, step by step, trying each one, to be sure it did not creak, before he trusted his weight on it. Now and then he would stop, and peer on all sides of him. Then he would listen to catch the faintest sound. But there was no noise. Not even the step of the policeman on the beat disturbed him. From afar came the hum of the big city, the roar of cars and elevated trains, the throb of traffic in the metropolis that never goes to sleep, but in the neighborhood of the tenement house all was quietness.

All at once the man on the steps began to sniff the air, like an animal scenting danger from afar.

“He's started the fire! I can smell the kerosene oil!” he said, softly. “Now for the final scene!”

Carefully he walked along until he came to the door that led into the kitchen of the Dexter apartments. From his pocket he drew forth a small instrument similar to that which the other man had used. He placed the sharp edge between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. He pried on it. There was a slight crack, and the door had been opened with a burglar's jimmy.

An instant later there broke out on the night air that most dreaded of all alarms in the midst of the crowded population of New York's poor:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

That was the cry that smote on the ears of those who were suddenly awakened from their slumbers.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

How it echoed down into the yard! How it sounded into the sleeping rooms! How it penetrated down the street, and even farther to where the policeman was smoking a cigar before the roundsman came!

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Up through the tenement poured a volume of thick smoke. Thick, stifling vapor that rolled up through the dumbwaiter shaft, that penetrated to the rooms, and set the frightened tenants to coughing.

What a scramble there was then! What a hurrying and scurrying to leap from bed, to grasp whatever garments came nearest to hand, to wrap them about one, and then, if there were children, to grab them up, and run for the hall!

What a scene of terror succeeded what, but a few minutes before, had been a peaceful one! Frightened yells and screams mingled with the alarm of fire shouted by a loud voice. Children began to cry. Women laughed hysterically, and men called to one another to know where the blaze was, for no flames could be seen. Only there was that black and stifling smoke.

The man who had so stealthily crept up the stairs suddenly leaped into the kitchen of the Dexter home.

“Fire! Fire!” he exclaimed. “Hurry up out! The house is on fire!”

Mrs. Dexter screamed. Mary and Jimmy began to cry. Lucy slipped on a robe, and ran into her mother's room. Larry leaped from his bed, and, pausing only to pull on his trousers, ran to where the others had gathered in the hall.

“Are you all out?” shouted the man, in the darkness. “Come on. I'll carry the little boy. You take the little girl, lad. The other girl can help the old lady!”

Then grabbing up Jimmy, the man, whose hands were encased in gloves, half led, half pushed the little group on before him. Larry, dazed from sleep, grabbed up Mary, and, seeing that Lucy was leading her mother safely down, followed; the man bringing up the rear with Jimmy, who was hardly awake.

“Is the house on fire?” asked Larry.

“Sure! Can't you smell the smoke?” asked the man.

“I mean is it bad?” cried Larry. “Because if it isn't I must go back for some of our clothes and things.”

“Don't stop that now,” the man exclaimed. “You'll be all burned up! Save your lives first!”

In all the excitement of it Larry could not help wondering where he had heard that voice before. But there was little time to think of this.

Down the stairs they ran, being joined by other tenants from every floor, all of whom were fleeing in scant attire. The cries of “fire” were being called now by scores of voices.

In about a minute, though it seemed five times as long as that, Larry, his mother, and all the others had emerged on the street. They found themselves in the midst of a motley throng, but in the excitement no one seemed to mind the strangeness of the attire.

One man was carrying two pillows, while his wife had a bird cage. Another man was trying to put his trousers on for a coat, and a third was endeavoring to drag a brass bed down the stairs.

Then came a shill tooting whistle followed by the gallop of horses.

“The engines are coming!” cried Larry. “Get back out of the way, mother. Here, Jimmy, you and Mary stay close to me. We'll go into one of these other houses. The fire doesn't seem to be bad. Then I must go back after that box of papers.”

The man with the gloves, who had roused the Dexter family, had placed Jimmy down on the sidewalk.

“I'm going back to rescue some more!” he cried, as he sped up the smoke-filled hallway. He seemed anxious to save human lives even at the risk of his own.

By this time half a score of engines and trucks had drawn up in front of the tenement, summoned by the alarm the policeman had turned in.

The various apparatus had not come to a halt before dozens of firemen had leaped to the ground, and run into the house. They wasted no time. While some sprang up the stairs to rescue any persons who had been left behind, others sought the source of the blaze. They soon discovered it to be in the cellar.

Lighting the way with lanterns they carried they dashed down, not minding the choking smoke.

“Run in a chemical line!” shouted a battalion chief through a small megaphone he carried. “It's only a pile of rubbish on fire. We don't need any water.”

Quickly a small hose from the chemical engine was unreeled. The engineer turned a crank at one end of a big cylinder, and a bottle inside which contained vitriol was smashed, allowing the contents to mingle with a strong solution of soda water. This created carbonic-acid gas, and forced the mingled liquids out through the hose at high pressure.

On to the blazing pile of rubbish the chemicals were turned, and the little blaze, which was more of smoke than of fire, was soon out.

“It's all over!” cried the battalion chief, five minutes later. “You can go back to bed!”

The people began to laugh hysterically, so sudden was the relief from anxiety. Several could not believe but what the house was doomed. The firemen, however, assured them there was no danger. Through the open windows the smoke was soon blown away. The engines started back to quarters.

“Come on, mother,” said Larry. “I guess we can go back now.”

“Golly! Wasn't that just like a circus!” exclaimed Jimmy.

Up the stairs the Dexters went. On the way they were joined by scores of other tenants, all talking at once.

“I wonder if my papers and that deed are safe,” thought Larry.

As soon as he got back to his bedroom he looked for the box. He crawled under the bed, and felt about.

“That's queer,” he mused. “I'm sure it was here!”

He made a hurried search of the room. The box had disappeared.

“We've been robbed during the fire!” exclaimed Larry.