He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough
usage as the Morris boys could.
Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he
shuddered whenever there was a cry from the burning building. "Poor
souls--God help them. Oh, this is awful," he said; and then he turned
his eyes from the great sheets of flame and strained the little boy to
his breast. At last there were wild shrieks that I knew came from no
human throats. The fire must have reached the horses. Mr. Morris sprang
up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he could be of no use.
There were hundreds of men standing about, but the fire had spread so
rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it, that there was very
little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the
poor animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the
tricks that the Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my
paws. They would throw a piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I
would crush it with my forepaws; and If the blaze was too large for
that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it and jump on it. I left
Mr, Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to the back of the
hotel.
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