Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, “Is every one out of the hotel?” A voice shouted back, “I’m going up to see.”

“It’s Jim Watson, the fireman,” cried some one near.  “He’s risking his life to go into that pit of flame.  Don’t go, Watson.”  I don’t think that the brave fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant later the same voice said, “He’s planting his ladder against the third story.  He’s bound to go.  He’ll not get any farther than the second, anyway.”

“Where are the Montagues?” shouted Mr. Morris.  “Has any one seen the Montagues?”

“Mr. Morris!  Mr. Morris!” said a frightened voices and young Charlie Montague pressed through the people to us.  “Where’s papa?”

“I don’t know.  Where did you leave him?” said Mr. Morris, taking his hand and drawing him closer to him.  “I was sleeping in his room,” said the boy, “and a man knocked at the door, and said, ’Hotel on fire.  Five minutes to dress and get out,’ and papa told me to put on my clothes and go downstairs, and he ran up to mamma.”

“Where was she?” asked Mr. Morris, quickly.

“On the fourth flat.  She and her maid Blanche were up there.  You know, mamma hasn’t been well and couldn’t sleep, and our room was so noisy that she moved upstairs where it was quiet.”  Mr. Morris gave a kind of groan.  “Oh, I’m so hot, and there’s such a dreadful noise,” said the little boy, bursting into tears, “and I want mamma.”  Mr. Morris soothed him as best he could, and drew him a little to the edge of the crowd.

While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry.  I could not see the person making it, but I knew it was the Italian’s voice.  He was screaming, in broken English that the fire was spreading to the stables, and his animals would be burned.  Would no one help him to get his animals out?  There was a great deal of confused language Some voices shouted, “Look after the people first Let the animals go.”  And others said, “For shame.  Get the horses out.”  But no one seemed to do anything, for the Italian went on crying for help, I heard a number of people who were standing near us say that it had just been found out that several persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out.  They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking for help.  Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows, for smoke was pouring from them.

The air was very hot and heavy, and I didn’t wonder that Charlie Montague felt ill.  He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris hadn’t taken him in his arms, and carried him out of the crowd.  He put him down on the brick sidewalk, and unfastened his little shirt, and left me to watch him, while he held his hands under a leak in a hose that was fastened to a hydrant near us.  He got enough water to dash on Charlie’s face and breast, and then seeing that the boy was reviving, he sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee, Charlie lay in his arms and moaned.  He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough usage as the Morris boys could.