Above the human babel sounded a vicious crackle of burning wood
like volleys of shots from small rifles. Red and yellow flames shot high
and straight into the air. Now and then a gust of wind sent the licking
fire demon earthward, and before its hot breath people fled in panic.
Benito flung his reins to a bystander. He was scarcely conscious of his
movements; only that he was fighting for breath in a surging,
suffocating press of equally excited human beings. From this he finally
emerged, hatless, disheveled, into a small cleared space filled with
flying sparks and stifling heat. Across it men rushed feverishly
carrying pails of water. Dennison's Exchange on Kearny street, midway of
the block facing Portsmouth Square, was a roaring furnace. Flame sprang
like red, darting tongues from its windows and thrust impertinent
fingers here and there through the sloping roof.
Somewhere--no one seemed to know precisely--a woman screamed, "My baby!
Save my baby!" The sound died to a moan, was stilled. Benito, passing a
bucket along the line, stared, white faced, at his neighbor. "What was
that?" he asked.
"Quien sabe?" said the other, "hurry along with that pail.
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