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. 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."