"Any bodies recovered?" asked Colonel Kirby, leaning from the seat
of his high dogcart to speak to the English fireman who stood sentry
over the water-plug.
"No, sir. The fire had too much headway before the alarm went in.
When we got here the whole lower part was red-hot."
"Any means of escape from the building from the rear?"
"As many as from a rat-run, sir. That house is as old as Delhi--
about; and there are as any galleries up above connecting with houses
at the rear as there are run-holes from cellar to cellar."
"Any chance for anybody down in the cellar?"
"Doubt it, sir. The fire started there; the water'll do what the
fire left undone. Pretty bad trap, sir, I should say, if you asked me."
"No reports of escape or rescue?"
"None that I've heard tell of."
"And the house seems doomed, eh? Be some days before they can sort
the debris over?"
"Lucky if we save the ten houses nearest it! Look, sir! There she
goes!"
The roof fell in, sending five separate volumes of red sparks up
into the cloudy night as floor after floor collapsed beneath the
weight. The thunder of it was almost drowned in a roar of delight,
for the crowd, sensing the new spirit of its masters, was in a mood
for the terrible. Then silence fell, as if that had been an overture.
Out of the silence and through the sea of hot humanity, the white of
his dress-shirt showing through the unbuttoned front of a military
cloak, Warrington rode a borrowed Arab pony, the pony's owner's sais
running beside him to help clear a passage.
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