And still I fought on, endeavoring to master the firebug without hurting him--just why, I have never been able to explain to myself. Possibly, I dimly felt at the time that his sister would not like it, for I spared him the weight of my fist and the throttling clutch that would have ended the fight in a moment, even though his own hands had torn my coat to shreds, and my face was scorched and smeared with kerosene in one of my whirling lunges toward his bonfire. He, too, must have felt the heat, for his snarling utterances took on a note of pain, and for a few moments he struggled in my grasp more furiously than ever; then he paused, became limp in my hands, and seemed to sink down. It was a clever ruse, for no sooner had I relaxed my hold than he broke away and shot out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. I let him go, but looked around; the room was in flames on two sides, while several trails of burning oil traversed the floor. I believe that some men in my position would have followed him; but I know that any fireman, policeman, soldier, or sailor would have done exactly as I did--remain to put out the fire. I dragged the blankets from the bed, whipped the flames from the walls and windows as I could, and when they were burned beyond use threw the fragments on to the still burning bonfire to smother it. As I labored I heard shouts of "Fire!" in the streets, and welcomed the news that assistance was coming. Then I heard the clatter and clang of the engines and voices and footsteps on the stairs. I whipped away at the flames, and just as I laid the last damaged blanket on the now smouldering fire, a policeman burst into the room and seized me. "Caught wi' the goods, hev! Stand still," he said. "Stand still, or I'll fan you." I ceased my momentary struggle with him as firemen came in with hose and an extinguisher, and stopped myself in a half-uttered sentence of explanation. This was a matter of family honor that need not be made public. "It's a job all right, isn't it, Bill?" asked the officer of a fireman who was calmly playing a small stream from the extinguisher on the remaining flames. "Surest job I ever saw," answered the man, turning for a look at me in the darkening light. "Pretty tough-looking customer. Don't belong to this town. Smell the kerosene?" "I smell it all right. You can smell it a mile, and he's got it on his clothes, too. Come on wi' me, my jewel. You're good for a few years at Trenton." Under a fictitious name I spent the night in jail, and in the morning, before the time for court to open, received a visit from Mr. George Morton. "Want to get at the person higher up, Mr. Morton?" asked the jailer, as they appeared before my cell. "Well, I can give you about half an hour." "Yes, yes," answered my visitor. "I want to talk with him privately; so, leave us alone, if you will. But don't get beyond call, please--not too far away." "Right. I'll come if I hear from you."