discovery the thing appeared insignificant, but Johnny’s motto was, “You never can tell,” and so he filed it away in his memory.

Mazie did go down to the central alarm station on the very next night, and that night there came in over the wires the thrilling third alarm.

CHAPTER III
THE FALSE ALARM

After receiving Mazie’s assurance that the little waif of the schoolhouse would be properly cared for, Johnny went at once to his own room, where he caught ten winks before the sun was high.

After a hasty breakfast, he returned to the scene of the fire. He found heaps of charcoal and broken timbers smouldering beneath piles of brick, but fortune favored his search. The section of basement that had been directly beneath the office was entirely free from fire and bricks. He was soon busily poking round in the ashes.

“A mechanism”; he thought to himself, “a thing of wheels and a spring like an alarm clock is what I’m looking for—a thing that runs just so long, then starts something.”

“But not necessarily so complicated,” he thought a moment later as he recalled the story of a firebug who, having soaked a common wooden mouse trap with kerosene, had baited it carefully and had so attached a match to the spring of the trap that when a mouse sprang it the match would light. He had then set the trap at the bottom of a huge waste paper basket into which the papers and scraps from noon hour lunch boxes had been cast.

“Simple, but possibly effective,” he said to himself. Then, almost humorously, he began keeping an eye out for the heat reddened wires of a mouse trap.

Not even these rewarded his search. Only the things common to a school office were to be found. Pencil ends, the remains of a pencil sharpener, metal backs to loose-leaf blank books, the charred remains of a telephone, blackened electric light fixtures and wires, wires, wires running everywhere.

“Nothing to be learned here,” he told himself.

Picking up the metal base of the telephone, he examined it idly. Then of a sudden he looked at it with a keen interest.

“That’s queer,” he muttered, “two sets of wires running from it, one heavier than the other. Wonder what that could mean. Trace ’em out.”

He did trace them out. He found that one pair, as the usual wires always do, led to a small pipe outside the wall. The other pair, fine and short, not more than fifteen feet long, ended in nothing at all—just broke off abruptly.

“Huh!” he mused, “that’s queer!”

“Not so queer after all, perhaps,” he added after a moment’s thought. “Most likely ran to a bell jack in another room. Then if the clerk or principal were working in that room and the phone rang, the bells would repeat the call. Nothing simpler than that. Nothing to it, after all.”

“But where’s the jack,” he thought again. “The box would burn, but there are fine coils on a spool inside. They wouldn’t burn; neither would the bells.”

A careful search brought no reward. If there had been a bell jack the metal parts had vanished. This puzzled Johnny but he placed little importance on the circumstance.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered as he lifted himself up from the basement. “Just have to check this fire off as a complete loss, unless the discovery of that pink-eyed man means something. I may see him sometime. And then, of course, what Tillie McFadden told me about being in the office almost up to the time of the fire seems to show that the fire was arranged for in advance. But how? That’s the question. All I’ve got to say is, this firebug is no ordinary rascal. He’s a man of keen mind. He’ll be hard to catch.”

He took the car downtown. It was his intention to go to the central station and report to Chief McQueen, but as he was about to change cars he chanced to notice a head and a pair of shoulders ahead of him that looked familiar. At that moment the man turned his head. Johnny saw his eyes. They were pink. Somewhat unsteadily he dropped back in his seat.

His thoughts raced. The man was his pink-eyed stranger of the night before. What should he do? Call a policeman? This thought was instantly abandoned. A man could scarcely be arrested for the look on his face, and that was really all he had seen amiss in the man. Follow him? If possible, learn something of his haunts? That was better. He’d do that.

Scarcely had he settled back comfortably in his seat than the man pressed the button, then rose to get off. Johnny followed.

Once off the car the man struck directly across the street, walked a half block, then turned to the right. He was now at the river. He went down a narrow, dirty sort of boat landing that skirted the river. Johnny could not follow here without being noticed, so, walking out on the bridge, he kept a watch from the corner of his eye.

About a block from the street the man turned again, this time to vanish. He had entered a door.

After carefully counting first the windows, then the doors in that block, then noting the type of building the man had entered, Johnny left the bridge to follow the street. Then, after turning the corner, he came up to the front of the building the man had entered.

Before that building he paused. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Funny sort of place to be going into.”

The place did seem strange. It was a store front, but the room on the street had not been used for months. The dust was so thick on the windows that one could discern objects within only as through a fog. The doorway was littered with heaps of dirty bits of paper deposited there by the wind.

“Been a commission merchant’s place sometime,” was Johnny’s mental comment as he caught a glimpse of dust blackened banana crates within. “Ships brought in produce and landed it at the back. Business didn’t thrive. Too far east on this street.”

“Well,” he sighed, “guess that’s about all for this time. Won’t forget the place, though, nor Mister Pink-Eyes either,” and with that he turned and headed for the central fire station.

“Johnny,” said the Chief as they sat in his office that afternoon, “I hope you realize the importance of the work you are attempting to do.”

“I hope so too,” said Johnny.

“You’re not a detective, Johnny. Your work is more that of an inspector. An inspector looks into the cause of fires and tries to prevent them. Man’s best friend, and worst enemy, is fire. It’s a case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The Mr. Hyde side of fire is a heartless brute. We are constantly attempting to destroy that side of his nature. All men should be enlisted on our side. Unfortunately, all are not. Those who go over to the enemy must be treated as enemies. They must be captured and imprisoned. There are times when I think the worst of them should be shot.

“It’s not the loss of property that’s the worst of it, but the loss of human life. And life, Johnny,” the inspector laid a hand on Johnny’s knee, “human life is the most precious thing in the world, and any man who has the slightest disregard for the ‘least of these’ isn’t fit to live. It would be better that a stone be tied about his neck and that he be cast into the midst of the sea. That’s what the Good Book says, Johnny, and it’s true, almighty true.”

“Coming up to the central alarm to-night?” he asked after a moment’s silence.

Johnny nodded.

“Good.”

“Going to bring a friend,” said Johnny,