ere was
something uncanny about the whole affair. I went back to Brookline soon
after that to send in the story and do some telephoning. When I got back
to the field I saw a man in front of me carrying a pail of water. I fell
into step beside him.

"What do you suppose it'll do?" he asked as we walked along.

"God knows," I answered. "Try it."

But when we got down into the field we found the police authorities in
charge. The crowd was held back now in a circle, a hundred yards away from
the light. After some argument we got past the officials, and, followed by
two camera men and a motion-picture man who bobbed up from nowhere, walked
out across the cleared space toward the light. We stopped about six or
eight feet from the edge of the hole; the heat was uncomfortably intense.

"I'll make a dash for it," said the man with the pail.

He ran forward a few steps, splashed the water into the light, and hastily
retreated. As the water struck the edge of the light there came a roar
like steam escaping under tremendous pressure; a great cloud of vapor
rolled back over us and dissolved. When the air cleared I saw that the
light, or the fire of this mysterious agency, was unchanged. The water
dashed against it had had absolutely no effect.

It was just after this incident that the first real tragedy happened. One
of the many quadruplanes that had been circling over the field during the
afternoon passed directly over the light at an altitude of perhaps three
thousand feet. We saw it sail away erratically, as though its pilot no
longer had it under control. Then it suddenly burst into flame and came
quivering down in a long, lengthening spiral of smoke.

That night the second of the meteors landed on the earth. It fell near
Juneau, Alaska, and was accompanied by the same phenomena as the one we
were watching. The reports showed it to be slightly smaller in size than
the Brookline meteor. It burned brightly during the day of November 12.
On the morning of the 13th wireless reports from Alaska stated that it had
burned out during the previous night.

Meanwhile the light at Brookline was under constant surveillance. It
remained unchanged in all respects.

The next night it rained--a heavy, pelting downpour. For a mile or more
around the field the hissing of steam could be heard as the rain struck
the light. The next morning was clear, and still we saw no change in the
light.

Then, a week later, came the cold spell of 1940