"When were you home, Paul?" he asked abruptly.
"Two or three hours since. I have just come from Barnum's."
"Then you don't know what's happened?"
Paul turned instantly.
"No. What is it?"
"Your house has caught fire, and is burning down. The engines are there, but I don't think they can save it."
"Let us hurry home, brother," said Paul. "It's lucky I've got my bank-book with me, so if we are burned out, we can get another home at once."
Excited by this startling intelligence, they quickened their steps, and soon stood in front of the burning building.
CHAPTER III.
THE BURNING OF THE TENEMENT HOUSE.
The scene was an exciting one. The occupants of the large tenement house had vacated their rooms in alarm, each bearing what first came to hand, and reinforced by a numerous crowd of outsiders, were gazing in dismay at the sudden conflagration which threatened to make them homeless.
"Och hone! och hone! that iver I should see the day!" exclaimed a poor Irish woman, wringing her hands. "It's ruined intirely I am by the fire. Is that you, Mrs. Hoffman, and Paul? Indade it's a sad day for the likes of us."
"It is indeed, Mrs. McGowan. Do you know how the fire caught?"
"It's all along of that drunken brute, Jim O'Connel. He was smokin' in bed, bad luck to him, as drunk as a baste, and the burnin' tobacker fell out on the shates, and set the bed on fire."
"Cheer up, Mrs. McGowan!" said the hearty voice of Mrs. Donovan. "We ain't burnt up ourselves, and that's a comfort."
"I've lost all my money," said Mrs. McGowan disconsolately. "I had twenty-siven dollars and thirty cents in the bank, and the bank-book's burnt up, och hone!"
"You can get your money for all that, Mrs. McGowan," said Paul. "Just tell them at the savings-bank how you lost your book, and they will give you another."
"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. McGowan doubtfully.
"I feel sure of it."
"Then that's something," said she, looking considerably relieved.
"Whin can I get it?"
"I will go with you to the bank to-morrow."
"Thank you, Paul. And it's you that's a fine lad intirely."
"All my pictures will burn up," said Jimmy.
"You can draw some new ones," said Paul. "I am afraid, mother, you will never wear that new dress of yours."
"It's a pity I bought it just at this time."
"Here's a bundle I took from your room, Mrs. Hoffman," said a boy, pushing his way through the crowd.
"My dress is safe, after all," said Mrs. Hoffman in surprise. "It is the only thing we shall save."
"You can have it made up and wear it in remembrance of the fire, mother."
"I shall be likely to remember that without."
Meanwhile the fire department were working energetically to put out the fire. Stream after stream was directed against the burning building, but the fire had gained too great headway. It kept on its victorious course, triumphantly baffling all the attempts that were made to extinguish it. Then efforts were made to prevent its spreading to the neighboring buildings, and these were successful. But the building itself, old and rotten, a very tinderbox, was doomed. In less than an hour the great building, full as a hive of occupants, was a confused mass of smoking ruins. And still the poor people hovered around in uncertainty and dismay, in that peculiarly forlorn condition of mind induced by the thought that they knew not where they should lay their heads during the coming night. One family had saved only a teakettle to commence their housekeeping with. A little girl had pressed close to her breast a shapeless and dirty rag baby, her most valued possession. A boy of twelve had saved a well-used pair of skates, for which he had traded the day before, while an old woman, blear-eyed and wrinkled, hobbled about, groaning, holding in one hand a looking-glass, an article the most unlikely of all, one would think, to be of use to her.
"Did you save nothing, Mrs. Donovan?" asked Paul.
"Shure and I saved my flatirons, and my tub I threw out of the window, but some spalpeen has walked off with it. I wish it had fallen on his head. What'll my Pat say when he comes home from work?"
"It's lucky no lives were lost."
"Thrue for you, Mrs. Hoffman. It might have been a dale worse. I don't mind meself, for I've strong arms, and I'll soon be on my fate again.
But my Pat'll be ravin'. He had just bought a new coat to go to a ball wid tomorrow night, and it's all burnt up in the fire. Do you see that poor craythur wid the lookin' glass? I'm glad I didn't save mine, for I wouldn't know what to do wid it."
"Well, Mrs. Donovan, we must find a new home."
"I've got a sister livin' in Mulberry street. She'll take me in till I can get time to turn round. But I must stay here till my Pat comes home, or he would think I was burnt up too."
The crowd gradually diminished. Every family, however poor, had some relations or acquaintances who were willing to give them a temporary shelter, though in most cases it fed to most uncomfortable crowding.
But the poor know how to sympathize with the poor, and cheerfully bore the discomfort for the sake of alleviating the misfortune which might some day come upon themselves.
"Where shall we go, mother?" asked Jimmy anxiously.
Mrs. Hoffman looked doubtfully at Paul.
"I suppose we must seek shelter somewhere," she said.
"How will the Fifth Avenue Hotel suit you?" asked Paul.
"I think I will wait till my new dress is finished," she said, smiling faintly.
"Why, what's the matter, Paul? You're not burnt out, are you?"
Turning at the voice, Paul recognized Sam Norton, a newsboy, who sold papers near his own stand.
"Just about so, Sam," he answered. "We're turned into the street."
"And where are you going to stop over night?"
"That's more than I know. Mother here isn't sure whether she prefers the St Nicholas or Fifth Avenue."
"Paul likes to joke at my expense," said Mrs. Hoffman.