Now, how feverishly he hoped that the building might be saved,--that the deep iniquity of which he had gained full knowledge by his own wrong-doing might be thwarted! He felt that he could hardly live carrying this secret, and yet he had already promised himself never to divulge it. He said to himself that he might not always be able to keep the curb on circumstance. His story might be doubted, or only half believed. He might draw suspicion on himself,--implicate himself in the crime of arson. That meant the Penitentiary,--and a long term. His narrative would be in part a confession. He had choused the management out of half a dollar,--and that was stealing! He must first impeach his own honesty, then ask to be believed when he accused others. And what might not these others say in contradiction and recrimination! Were they not as likely to be believed as he? Certainly a boy who stole could scarcely hope he would not be suspected of other crimes if there were any evidence against him. Ned dreaded too the malignity of the men,--if they were capable of firing the theatre they were capable of falsely accusing him. No!--no!--he would never tell that he had witnessed any drama on those boards save the tragedy of Hamlet. Was the fire less than before? They said so. It seemed to him hotter, redder, fiercer. Before long he knew that the fight was hopeless. The west wall gave way. Through the great gaps the stage became visible. The flames were licking up first one and then another of the many heavy "sets." As the lurid glare was flung upon some representation of Alpine heights or moonlit lake, or grim castle battlements or bosky woodland scene,--idealized infinitely in its unique frame of wreathing flames,--the crowd gave it "hands," as an audience is wont to applaud some fine new manifestation of the scene-painter's art. It seemed to Ned, knowing what he did, very melancholy. He shook his head, and his heart was heavy. As he stood there a familiar face attracted his attention. "Is that you, Tom?" he called out. "Nothin' shorter," replied a stout, undersized boy, nodding a round bullet head, surmounted by an old gray cap. "Wher' 's Pete?" demanded Ned, for this was Pete's brother. "I s'posed he wuz along of you. I seen ye together after dark a-makin' off." "Naw,--he hain't been with me sence." Ned hesitated. A look of blank surprise was on Tom's face. "I made sure he wuz with you," he said. "Pete hain't been home this night." CHAPTER IV When Master Peter Bateman ran away after seeing his friend into the theatre and past the dragon he did not run far. That curious, gigantic flower, with petals of fluttering palm leaves and pistil and stamens of pyramidal gas-jets, was still a-bloom in the darkness, and a friendly hail from beneath it arrested his steps. "Hy're, Pete," sang out half a dozen boyish voices.