A capricious draught slanted the flame of the candle until it gently touched the corner of the newspaper. Being damp, the paper burnt slowly and only in one direction. Finally it went out, but not before setting light to an enthusiastic wisp of straw. The straw realised at once what was required, and passed the dancing yellow flame along the ridge of the line of overflowing cases. The lids of the cases were screwed down and the heat generated from the burning wisps of protruding straw was insufficient to ignite them. This was very disappointing, for very soon the straw had burnt out and, but for one insignificant circumstance, a very enjoyable fire would have been lost to the neighbourhood. The circumstance in question was provided by a stump of pencil which hung on a string from a notice-board. A final spurt of flame from the last tuft of straw ignited the little piece of cedar-wood, which—nothing if not communicative—promptly conveyed its sorrow to the string supporting it. The string burnt through and the flaming pencil dropped to the floor upon a little heap of paper and rubbish. In these sympathetic surroundings it received every encouragement, and in very little time the whole pile was blazing merrily. A chance puff of wind from an open doorway scattered fragments in three directions, in each of which a cheerful fire resulted. The packing-room, a few feet down the passage, where stacks of empty cartridge-boxes were stored, was, perhaps, the most successful; although, considering the non-inflammable nature of much of its contents, the small recess beneath the wooden staircase competed very creditably. The third fire was insignificant, confining itself to the cremation of a row of overalls hanging on a line of hooks. When the night-watchman woke, he found himself confronted with a task beyond the reaches of his capacity. His rush to the fire rack resulted in oversetting two buckets of water, and the flames, laughing at his failure, tore down the ceiling of the packing-room and mounted gleefully to the storey above. The curtain had just risen on the last act when Mr. Gimball burst through the iron door and almost fell upon Eliphalet Cardomay, waiting in the wings. “The cartridge factory next door is ablaze,” he gasped, “and the sparks are pouring down by the box-office. Drop the iron curtain and we’ll get the audience out.” “At once!” assented Cardomay. “But wait a moment—if the stuff is falling outside, will they be able to pass?” “God! I don’t know—I doubt it.” “There are five minutes before my entrance. Take me somewhere where I can see—quickly.” Mr. Gimball hurried him through the iron door and up some private stairs. At the end of a corridor they found a window, and looked down at the street below. Flames were pouring from the factory and the walls bulged dangerously. “Useless,” said Eliphalet. “We must empty the house through the emergency exits.” Then he remembered, and looked at Mr. Gimball with condemning eyes.