Warrington was still
humming to himself as he dismissed both sais and pony and climbed up
beside Kirby in the dog-cart.
"If Ranjoor Singh's in that house, he's in a predicament," he said
cheerfully. "I went to police headquarters, and the first officer I
spoke to told me to go to hell. So I went into the next office, where
all the big panjandrums hide--and some of the little ones--and they
told me what you know, sir, that the house is in flames and every
policeman who can be spared is on the job, so I came to see. If
Ranjoor Singh's in there--but I don't believe he is!"
"Why don't you?"
"I don't believe the Lord 'ud send us active service--not a real red
war against a real enemy--and play a low-down trick on Ranjoor Singh.
Ranjoor Singh's a gentleman. It wouldn't be sportsmanlike to let him
die before the game begins."
For a minute or two they watched the sparks go up and the crowd
striking at the rats that still seemed to find some place of exit.
"There's a place below there that isn't red--hot yet," said Kirby.
"Those rats are not cooked through. Did you tell the police that you
wanted a search warrant?"
"Yes. Might as well argue with an ant-heap. All of 'em too busy
tryin' for commissions in the Volunteers to listen. They've got it
all cut an' dried--somebody in the basement upset a lamp, according
to them--nobody up-stairs--nobody to turn in the alarm until the fire
had complete charge! They offer to prove it when the fire's out and
they can sort the ashes.
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