Lost in the land of ice

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

Loud and clear through the midnight air rang the warning gong of a long hook-and-ladder truck as the machine bowled along over the granite-block pavement of one of the lower streets of the city of New York.

The hour was well past midnight, yet New York never sleeps, and the streets were more or less alive with people, some going to their early work, others returning from a half night of pleasure.

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

Down past the Astor House on Broadway swept the heavy truck, filled with swaying firemen, who clung fast like so many monkeys as they donned their rubber coats and boots. Five minutes before, most of them had been sleeping on their cots in the truck house, half a dozen blocks away. But now every man was wide awake and ready to do his duty to the utmost, no matter what the peril.

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

The long truck swept around the corner of Vesey street, and as it did so the clanging of the gong awoke many of the sleepers in the hotel with a start.

“What’s the matter?”

“Where is the fire?”

“Is the hotel burning?”

Such were some of the questions asked, as those in the rooms either ran into the hallway or craned their heads out of the many windows of the second, third, and fourth stories of the hotel.

“No danger here,” was the reply, which was quickly circulated. “The fire is at the Powell cold-storage warehouse, two blocks below here.”

“The Powell cold-storage warehouse,” repeated a tall and handsome youth, who was occupying an elegantly furnished apartment on the second floor. “You are sure of that?”

“Yes, sah,” replied the hallman.

“Then I’m going to dress and go to it,” went on Barry Filmore. “I am interested in that plant.”

“If you is, I’d be sorry to see it burn down,” remarked the hallman, for he had received many a generous tip from rich Barry Filmore, and he liked the young man very much.

“Oh, it’s insured, or at least it ought to be,” answered Barry; “although old Powell is such a queer stick, there is no telling what he is up to, half the time.” And he began to haul on his clothing with all speed.

Barry Filmore was a youth of nineteen, tall, strong, good looking, and well liked by all who knew him. He was the orphan son of a former Brooklyn millionaire, and at the death of his parents, three years previous to the opening of this story, had been placed in the care of Jasper Powell, a peculiar old man, who was at the head of the Powell Cold Storage Warehouse Company, and who was also the inventor of several systems of cold storage and refrigerating, in use both in warehouses and on freight trains.

Barry did not like Powell because of his peculiar ways; yet as the old man let him do very nearly as he pleased, the youth found little cause to complain. Powell was a bachelor, living at a cheap hotel on the east side. Barry did not live with him, but instead put up either at one of the leading hotels or on board of his own private steam yacht, the Arrow. The Arrow had been left to Barry by his father, who had also, by the terms of his will, left his only son two hundred dollars per month for living expenses until he should become twenty-one, when he was to inherit the whole of the Filmore fortune, less ten thousand dollars, which was to go to Jasper Powell for his services as executor.

When Barry reached the street he found it crowded with people, all rushing in the direction of the fire. A steam engine had gone on ahead and now another followed, and then came a patrol wagon with several special policemen.

The Powell cold-storage warehouse was situated in the middle of a block, with other warehouses on either side of it. When Barry reached the vicinity, flames were shooting from the windows of the first floor, and thick, black smoke was puffing out from many windows above and from the roof.

“That building is doomed!”

“The firemen will be lucky if they save the buildings on both sides!”

“Where is the watchman?”

So the cries ran on, as the crowd surged closer and closer, until the police drove the people back. One steamer was already at work, and now a second began to pour two streams into the second-story window. But the crackling of the flames increased, and soon it was evident that the fire was crawling steadily up the rear of the structure to the roof.

Suddenly a wild shriek was heard, coming directly after a jingling of glass, and an old man with flowing white hair appeared in the frame of a third-story window. He had dashed out the panes of glass with his hands, and the blood was flowing from those members.

“Save me!” he screamed. “Save me! Don’t let me die like a rat in a trap!”

“It’s old man Powell!” uttered half a dozen voices. “What is he doing in the building at this time of night?”

“Bring up a ladder, boys!” shouted the captain of the hook-and-ladder truck. “Step lively now, or we’ll be too late.”

“Save me!” continued Jasper Powell, dancing around on the window sill. “You dogs! Why don’t you save me? You want me to burn up, don’t you?” Always of a peculiar turn of mind, the fire had driven him almost insane.

The ladders were rushed forward and placed against the window, and up the first of them ran a truckman, followed by a fellow-fireman. But before the window was gained, Jasper Powell shook his fist at the advancing men.

“No, you don’t!” he snarled. “You shan’t learn my secret! Get back! I’ll come down alone!” And he continued to shake his fist at the two firemen.

“Keep cool, old man,” said the truckman, soothingly. “We’ll have you down, all safe and sound in a minute.”

“You shan’t learn my secret, I say!” roared Jasper Powell, frantically. “Get back! My secret has been my own for ten years! Get back!” And then, as the truckman came up another step, the old man turned suddenly and disappeared from view.

“Well, blame him for a fool!” muttered the truckman. “Come back here, if you want to be saved.”

“He’s a goner!” yelled the crowd. “He’s gone crazy, and will rush right into the flames.”

Barry had listened to Jasper Powell’s words with keen interest.

“His secret!” he murmured. “I knew he had a secret last week, and last month, too, when he wouldn’t let me go near room 18. Whatever his secret is, it’s in room 18—and I’m going to find it out!” he added suddenly.

He was in the front rank of spectators, and darting past a policeman, made straight for the doorway of the burning building. The flames had now found an outlet at the rear of the building, so the hallway was comparatively free from smoke and fire.

“Hi, come back here!” yelled the officer of the law. “Do you want to be burnt up?”

“No; and I’m not going to be burnt up!” answered Barry. “I know what I am doing.”

“It’s sure death to go in there.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Not much you won’t!” answered the policeman, and darted after Barry. But the youth was not to be caught, and soon a puff of smoke drove the bluecoat back into the street.

In the course of the past few years Barry had paid the cold-storage warehouse many visits, and consequently he knew the building thoroughly. The elevator shaft was a mass of flames, but the stairs behind it were still untouched, and up these he went, three steps at a time.

“Mr. Powell! Mr. Powell! Where are you?” he called out at the top of his lungs.

No answer came back—only the crackling of the flames—and he mounted to the third story. He was passing through the upper hallway when he stumbled over something and fell headlong.

“Oh!” came in a groan, and he recognized Jasper Powell’s voice. The old man was in a chill of fear, with his limbs trembling violently and his teeth chattering.

“Go! leave me—leave me with my secret!” he gasped, staring wildly at Barry. “Go! go!”

“Mr. Powell, don’t you know me!” returned the youth. “It is your ward, Barry Filmore.”

“No! no! You are the demon of the South Pole, come to rob me of my secret! Begone, or the fiery furnace will open to receive you! Begone, I say!” And then the old man began to weep like a little child.

“As mad as a March hare!” murmured Barry.

“But he’s got a secret, sure!” he added mentally.

“Leave me, I say!” continued Jasper Powell. “You are the demon of the South Pole, but the secret of the land of ice is mine—all mine! And the gold of the treasure ship, too! All mine—all Jasper Powell’s! Ha! ha!” And leaping to his feet he flourished his arms wildly before Barry, and then darted swiftly toward the rear of the building, where the flames now made all as bright as day.

“Mr. Powell, come back! Please come back!” yelled Barry, hoarsely. The strangeness of the situation almost struck him dumb.

“Come back, to be robbed of my secret? Never!” screamed the old man. “Farewell, and when next we meet, let it be at the South Pole!”

And with one long cry which rang in Barry Filmore’s ears for days afterward, he rushed for the rear of the warehouse and plunged straight into the roaring flames, to be seen no more!