something? Have they tried to put it out?"

"It's no use to try now," Gifford answered. "They didn't discover it in
time. It has made such headway, that the only thing to do is to see that
it burns out, without setting fire to any of the houses. Fortunately the
wind is towards the river."

John shook his head; he was too breathless to speak for a moment; then he
said, "Something must be done."

"There is no use, Mr. Ward," Gifford explained. But John scarcely heard
him; his people's comfort, their morality almost,--for poverty meant
deeper sin to most of them,--was burning up in those great square piles
of planks.

"Men," he shouted, "men, the engine! To the river! Run! run!"

"Nothing can be done," Gifford said, as the crowd broke, following the
preacher, who was far ahead of all; but he too started, as though to join
them, and then checked himself, and went back into the deserted street,
walking up and down, a self-constituted patrol.

Almost every man had gone to the river. Tom Davis, however, with Molly
beside him, stood lolling against a tree, sobered, indeed, by the shock
of the fire, but scarcely steady enough on his legs to run. Another, who
was a cripple, swaying to and fro on his crutches with excitement, broke
into a storm of oaths because his companion did not do the work for which
he was himself too helpless. But Tom only gazed with bleared eyes at the
fire, and tried to stand up straight.