"Got some of 'em out," was the answer. "We couldn't get at the others: the smoke was too thick."
"Where are the prisoners?"
"Under guard, in the compound in the rear."
Without the loss of a moment, Gilbert ran around to the compound. At least sixty prisoners were there, some of the wounded lying upon the ground and improvised couches. He looked them all over, but saw nothing of Nuggy Polk.
"I am looking for a man who was in Ward 8," he said to one of the prison guards. "His name was Nuglich Polk, and he was an American."
"We couldn't get anybody out of Ward 8," was the answer, after a glance at Gilbert's uniform. "That ward is up there, and the smoke kept us out."
The young lieutenant made out the corner of the building to which the guard alluded. An outside stairway led to that section of the structure, a stairway which but a moment before had been surrounded by smoke. But now came a puff of wind, and the smoke was sent flying in the opposite direction.
"Give me a key—I am going to look for that
