Sam never quite forgot that dash for safety. It was a horrible nightmare while it lasted. Somewhere near the stairway a solitary electric bulb had faintly illumined the gloom of the long corridor when they had ascended, but there was no sign of it now. Instead, from the shaft in which the two elevators were operated, a lurid glow poured up, rising and falling as though somewhere in the depths of the building a giant furnace was being stoked. With the light of the flames ascended billows of dun-coloured smoke and showers of sparks, and, listening as they crouched for their dash past the well, they heard the growling roar of the fire, with now and then the sudden crackling of the eager flames which, even as they looked, sent a tiny tongue licking at the flooring. The fire escape was at the rear of the building, down the length of the long corridor, and to reach it they must win past that veritable crater of heat and smoke. Thrice they tried it and thrice they were beaten back, their eyes blinded, their lungs choked with the scorching fumes. And then, endurance at an end, they staggered desperately back to the office, suffered torments while Mr. Hall fumbled for the knob, and at last, gasping and sobbing, sought relief at the open windows. It was a full minute before anyone spoke. Then, drawing a deep breath into his parched lungs, Mr. Hall said quietly, with a twisted sort of smile, “Rather silly being roasted alive here, Johnny!” “We sha’n’t be. They’ll have us out of here in a minute. There they come now! Hear?” From somewhere far below came the shriek of the engine siren, sounding nearer and nearer, and the clang of the bells. And at that moment the light in the office went out and they were in darkness. CHAPTER XXV SAM SIGNALS FOR A FAST ONE Tom Pollock was working late that evening at Cummings and Wright’s. Baseball activities had put him behind with his correspondence and he was trying to catch up with it. Only the light over his desk was burning and the rest of the store was dim and empty. As he sealed and addressed his final letter he glanced at the little tin clock before him. The hour was just short of nine. In the act of opening a drawer to get stamps, he paused with outstretched hand and listened alertly. From down Main Street came the shrill, unmistakable whistle of Amesville’s single auto-engine. Tom gathered his letters into a pile, seized his cap, switched out the light, and hurried to the door.