me as a--as a specimen."

"I would hardly have told you as much if I weren't willing to tell you
all. I'm puzzling over a problem that might be simplified by a woman's
wit. We can't talk here, though. Too public."

"Suppose you escort me home. I've a torch, and I'm going up this
short-cut. We can chat on the way." She glanced downhill. "This
excitement is about over; shall we start?"

"Whenever you please."

They were turning away side-by-side when a fitful gust of wind swept up
to them from the direction of the sinking flames. There is only one
thing more malodorous than a tannery, and that is a burning tannery.
Miss Ocky choked.

"Pwhew!" she gasped. "It smells like--like--"

"Like the soul of Simon Varr," supplied Sherwood promptly.

_VIII: Two Victims of Theft_

Varr remained at the tannery until the last dying ember had been
extinguished. Not till then did Marshal August Wimpelheimer come gayly
up to him, his regalia a trifle the worse for wear and his breath
coming a little short from his exertions but his expression that of one
who has been hugely enjoying himself. He saluted with a flourish.

"All over, Mr. Varr! I told you we'd handle it. I'm sorry we couldn't
save those first two buildings, but they had too much of a start. Full
of that inflammable stuff and with a breeze like this blowing sparks as
big as my helmet"--the article of attire referred to was nearly as
large as himself--"We were lucky to get control--"

"Have you seen anything of Fay about?"

"Your watchman? Yes, sir, he was in the thick of everything! I'd like
to add him to my Department. But the boys all did
splendidly--smoke-eaters, Mr. Varr, every mother's son of 'em! I hope
you noticed, sir, that when it came to volunteers for the bucket-gang a
lot of your workmen stepped up. They forgot about the strike and
pitched in with both hands! It shows there's a heap of good in human
nature."

"It shows they know which side their bread is buttered!" grunted the
tanner. "How would they get their jobs back if they let the whole
outfit burn? Eh?"

The Fire Marshal flushed, but the grocer bit back the words that
trembled on his lips. Little Wimpy had gallantry to spare when it came
to facing fire, which is a clean foe and a clean fighter, but his
courage stopped there. Varr owned his store, Varr held a chattel
mortgage on his fixtures--and there were the little Wimpies to be
thought of!

"Good night, sir!