Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/275

 From all sides came guests, scantily clad, hundreds of guests; the Chamberlin, at this time, was full. There was little anyone could do. The fire had already attained a glorious start and, as Val had predicted, the hotel went up like tinder. It was built of wood throughout, with the exception of the foundations, and there was no chance of stopping it.

By some miracle nobody was hurt, although hundreds of thousands of dollars in personal belongings were lost in the haste of the escape. The Chamberlin was now blazing to the skies at the west end, illumining the land and the sea for miles. It was a red pit of leaping, devilish flame. There was an occasional crash somewhere inside of the place as some great timber fell. There was the continual tinkle of broken glass, and through every window the flames leaped, gaining headway incredibly.

Through the rent night sounded the thin, golden call of the bugle at Fortress Monroe, a few hundred yards away. It was the fire call. In a few minutes the soldiers were there, dragging their equipment, pitifully impotent against the magnitude of the debacle. Other organizations were there almost as soon—they came from Phoebus first, and then from Hampton, and then from Newport News, the last a great, chugging monster of a motor truck.

The thin lines of water were absolutely lost in the ever-climbing flames. And now the dawn began to come in over the sea, a golden dawn that was thinned, somehow, against the wonder of the great pile of flame. Hundreds of people crowded in front of the hotel, watching it burning. It was said on authority that everyone seemed to be out, and that being the case, Val and Eddie returned to their automobile and dressed