"George," the fire chief called to a brassarded man, "get some people, a dozen if you can, and see if you can do anything about Mrs. Comden's place. She says it's beginning to lean badly. Be a pity to see it go now." George, an electric-company rigger, said, "What kind of a house, Mrs. Comden? How big? Which way's it going?" "Frame. Two-story, eight rooms. It's going into the street, maybe gone by now, I don't know." "What's in the back yard? Do you have a back yard?" She passed her hand vaguely across her forehead, brushing back her hair. "Back yard? Just a back yard. A vegetable garden..." "Good," said George with satisfaction. "I know where there's some wire rope and oil drums. We'll dig in the drums for deadmen and anchor the house to them with the rope. I'll need a truck, Chief." "You get a car," the chief said. "Sorry." He scribbled a note which would go to the guardian of the improvised motor pool outside. George walked off with it slowly, collecting waiting men. He picked them big and burly. The woman trailed apathetically after. The chief was already engaged with a man who wanted a gang to clear away snapped and fallen electrical cables which would set his house afire--and, as an afterthought, the neighborhood it was in--the instant current came through again. He got two men with axes and a felling saw to cut away the fallen tree that had brought down the cables. It was getting dim in the marble lobby, in spite of the tall windows. On a couple of the card tables candles stuck in their own wax were being lit; across the room somebody was pumping up a Coleman lamp. It lit, in a dazzling green-white flare, and the gloom was gone for a while. On the police chief's side the reports were more bitter. "Goons from across the river, Red. So far they're just hanging around and talking it up, but they've got bottles. It's just a matter of time before they get brave enough to smash my window and grab the furs. There's a dozen of them and I've got to have at least six men. So help me, if I don't get six men I'm going to kill the first drunken s.o.b. that makes a move at our place. I've got my brother there with the shotgun now--" "Skip the rest, Pete. You and your brother are two able-bodied men and you've got a shotgun. You don't need any help." "I don't _want_ to blast 'em!" the furrier wailed. "Why do we hire you guys, anyway?" "We're spread too thin, Pete. We'll send the patrol car past and put a scare into your friends, but don't expect us to tie up six men for every shop on Broad Street. We're spread too thin and we have to keep moving. Matter of fact, I ought to let your brother handle the store himself and deputize you right here and now." "No you don't, Red!" The man backed away and was gone. A wide-eyed scout darted up and gave old Red the three-fingered salute. "Big fight, Chief, down on the river, foot of Sullivan. I don't know what it's about, maybe one of the boats--"