A NIGHT RIDE ON A FIRE ENGINE.
The comfort of Dick’s stay in the engine-house depended very largely
upon how he took this laughter at his expense, and he was shrewd enough
to know it. He had mistaken the noontime signal, when the correct city
time is sent to every engine-house for a fire alarm, and the fun-loving
firemen could not lose such a good chance to laugh at him.
There was no danger, though, that Dick would lose his temper, and so
make himself the butt of countless other jokes. He enjoyed his mistake
as much as any of them and laughed with the rest, and so began a
pleasant acquaintance with the men that was an advantage to him in a
business way, for they all had good stories to tell.
“Every house ought to have a pole like that,” he laughed; “it’s ever so
much easier than coming downstairs.”
Returning to the third story, he went about with the chief to see the
men’s sleeping-room and the big sitting-room on the second floor, where
they amuse themselves with checkers, chess, dominoes, and newspapers
and magazines.
“A fireman is always on duty, you know,” the chief explained. “Only
one or two men go out to their meals at a time, so we are never left
short-handed. At any moment a bad fire may break out, and we must be
ready. For a big fire we have what we call second and third alarms. At
a first alarm only four engines go to a fire. If I see when I reach the
spot that it is likely to be a bad fire, I send in a second alarm, and
that brings four more engines. If it is very dangerous, I send also a
third alarm, and that calls four more; twelve in all. Besides these
there is what we call the general alarm, 666, which calls every engine
in the city--more than a hundred of them. But I hope we will never have
occasion to use that.”
“Well, I’m sure to see how you work at a fire,” Dick said, “as I am to
stay till I have a chance to go out with you.”
“You might possibly have to wait a day or two,” the chief answered;
“but often we go out three or four times in a day and night.”
When Dick went downstairs again he discovered on one side of the big
room a dial telegraph instrument with which the foreman communicated
with headquarters; and on the slate that hung by it he read this
message, which evidently had just been sent:--
“Richard Sumner has presented an order to remain here and accompany
apparatus to fires. Is it genuine?”
“Ah, ha!” he laughed; “they’re not going to be caught napping with any
forged order. I think it’s the most perfectly organized system I ever
saw.”
“How do you get up steam so fast in the boiler?” he asked the foreman.
“Of course you must be ready for work when you reach a fire.”
“I’ll show you,” the foreman replied. “To begin with, the boiler of the
engine has two hundred and sixty flues, and that gives great heating
surface. Then you see this pipe that comes up through the floor and
fits over a corresponding pipe at the back of the engine? When the
engine is backed in, the two pipes run together, and when it goes out
they separate and automatic valves close them up.
“Well, that pipe runs down into the cellar and connects with a furnace
there in which a fire is always kept burning. The hot water runs up
into the boiler, so, as you will easily see, the water in the boiler is
always hot. That is a great help in making steam quickly. The furnace
alone gives heat enough to keep five pounds of steam pressure always on
the boiler.
“Then we burn English cannel coal, at twenty dollars a ton, because
it is full of oil and burns rapidly. The engine’s furnace is piled
full of combustible wood soaked in oil, with a layer of cannel coal
on top--always ready to start a quick fire. The engineer has a little
torch made of tow fastened to a bit of wood, with a fusee stuck in the
end. The fusee will not blow out in the hardest wind, and the instant
the engine goes out the door the engineer strikes it against the wheel
and touches off his fire. Inside of two minutes he has a hundred pounds
of steam on.”
At that moment the battalion chief joined them.
“We do everything,” he said, “on the principle that a minute’s work at
the beginning of a fire is worth more than an hour’s work after it has
gained headway. We must be on hand quickly; and, as you see, we don’t
waste much time.”
Throughout the afternoon and early evening the engine was manned five
or six times, and every time Dick was promptly in his place; but it did
not go out. When bedtime came, between nine and ten o’clock, the chief
gave him some final instructions.
“And you must mind what I tell you,” he said, “or you’ll not get to the
fire, if there is one.”
“I am used to obeying orders,” Dick replied.
“Very well then,” said the chief, “here is order number one. You see
that brass handle around the back of the boiler? Hang on to that with
both hands, for your life depends on it. At night when the streets are
clean we go on a dead run, and turning the corners will throw you off
your feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Dick.
“Order number two. Keep your eye on the horses. If a horse falls, jump
for your life; for the tender will be right behind you, and it will be
on top of you and crush you in a second.”
“Order number three. Here is a fireman’s hat for you and an old coat.
See, I hang them on the end of the brass handle, near where you will
stand. You see every man has his hat and an old coat hung by his place
on the engine or tender. We don’t wear uniform at night, except the
hat. These are all hung up ready for work in case we go out. Now come
up stairs till I put you to bed properly.”
“Here is your bed,” he continued when they were in the third-story
room, “and here is a pair of rubber boots I can lend you. Take off your
shoes and put these on; you’d never get into those shoes in time.”
“Am I to sleep in rubber boots?” Dick asked with a laugh.
“No; but put them on. That’s right. Now stuff the ends of your
trowsers into the tops of the boots. So. Now, then, strip down your
trowsers till the top part is all inside out, and pull off both boots
and trowsers, leaving the ends of the trowsers still sticking in the
boot-tops.
“That’s it; you’re doing famously. Now we stand the boots here by the
side of the bed, with the trowsers skinned down partly over their legs,
leaving a free passageway for a foot into each boot-leg. There! now
you’ve gone to bed like a fireman.
“Do you see the reason for all this?” the chief asked. “When the tap of
the bell wakes you, you spring out of bed, and down go your feet right
into the boots. With the same movement you are inside your trowsers
also, and you pull the trowsers up as you run to the pole. The hat
and coat, being already on the engine, you put on whenever you get a
chance. That is our secret of quick dressing. It is these little things
that help us get the engine out of the house in ten seconds from the
tap of the bell.
“Now one more thing,” he continued. “When you slide down the pole and
land at the bottom, don’t stand there to look at the scenery but get
out of the way. The man behind you will be right on top of you if you
don’t move fast.”
Dick found it hard work to go to sleep with the prospect of that
dreadful gong ringing at any moment; but at length he dropped off; and
when he awoke he did not have to collect his thoughts, for the gong was
saying,--
“Tap-tap!”
He had never put on boots and trowsers in a second and a half before,
but he did it that time. He was not the last man at the pole, either;
there were two or three behind him. He remembered the danger at the
foot of the pole and sprang to his place on the engine. The engineer
and his assistant were already there; the horses were in place; the
driver was in his seat with the reins in his hands. The man stood by
the big doors, ready to throw them open.
“Tap-tap!” the gong had already struck, and somebody on the tender had
called out “Two!”
“Tap-tap-tap-tap!” said the gong.
“Four!” said the voice.
Two-four. Not one of Number Four’s alarms yet.
“Tap-tap!” said the gong.
“Two-four-two,” said the voice; but long before the words were finished
the big doors flew open and out went the company with a rush; engine
first, tender following. Out with a bound across the floor; with a
heavy holding in as the engine swung into the street; with a mad,
whirlwind dash down Liberty Street.
There was a whip in the socket, but the driver did not take it out. The
horses were wild with excitement.
“Hi! hi! hi! hi!” the driver shouted; for the street was clear and
he wanted their top speed. They seemed to Dick to be entirely beyond
control already. “Hi! hi!” On they flew, faster and faster every moment.
Thick black smoke was pouring out of the funnel, and the tender was
right behind. Dick kept his eye on the horses, remembering his orders.
He breathed nothing but smoke and cinders, but no matter.
[Illustration: ON THEY FLEW, FASTER AND FASTER EVERY MOMENT.]
Excitement? Take all the horse races that ever were run, all the
boat races that ever were rowed, all the Roman gladiatorial combats
tossed in a heap; mix in a thousand bull fights and a year’s railroad
accidents, a century of Presidential elections and a hundred wars in
the East,--and you get a faint idea of the flash and fury of a night
ride on a fire engine through the streets of New York. Dick felt the
blood pumping in his veins.
“Hold fast!” the engineer shouted. And as the engine swung into Pearl
Street at a terrific gait Dick’s feet flew out and nothing but his grip
upon the brass bar saved him.
“Where is it?” he shouted to the engineer; no ordinary tone could have
been heard in that din.
“Pearl above Fulton,” was the answer.
How cool the engineer was! and all the firemen, for that matter. This
man was calmly testing his watercocks, while his assistant oiled the
machinery. The steam-gauge stood at one hundred and five.
“Hi! hi! hi!” There was the fire bursting from the fourth-story windows
of an old-fashioned brick warehouse, almost beside them; but there was
no let-up in the speed till the last moment. Then the engine stopped
“all at once,” as Dick said to himself; and the tender stopped close by
a fire hydrant, and some of the men began to unwind part of the fifteen
lengths, seven hundred and fifty feet, of hose it carried.
Number Four was the first engine on the spot, being nearest the fire;
and even in his excitement Dick could not help but admire the beautiful
system with which everything was done. The foreman of the first
company to arrive was in charge of the fire till the battalion chief
arrived in his wagon; and the battalion chief was in command till the
chief of the whole department came.
But wonderfully few orders were given, because every man knew just
what to do and did it. A pipe was run from the hydrant to the engine,
and the hose was attached to the engine’s discharge pipe. Four men
meanwhile were throwing their weight against the steel doors of the
building; for the warehouse was provided with outer doors and shutters
of steel.
But the doors would not yield, and out came the axes from the tender.
Crash! crash! Ah, how those big axes cut through the steel! In a few
seconds the doors were cut away as if they had been made of pasteboard.
“Man the pipe!”
Dick had not been told what his duties were to be at an actual fire.
But his blood was up; he was bound to do something, and seeing four
men enter the doorway with the line of hose, he sprang forward and
joined them in a scramble up the steep wooden stairways of the burning
building.
As he passed through the doorway a long hook-and-ladder truck came
dashing down Pearl Street.
Up they went with a rush to the top story, dragging the hose with
them. There was hardly time to take a long breath before a stream of
water was playing upon the fire. Through the windows Dick saw the
ladders from the long truck, and in a minute more firemen of another
company were cutting a hole through the roof and throwing in their own
stream of water. The smoke was blinding, but the fire was soon under
control.
When the order was given to “shut off Number Four,” Dick returned to
the street, where he found the scene greatly changed. Hundreds of
people had gathered, and the police had formed the “fire lines” to keep
them back out of danger. Several more engines were in sight, and three
long extension ladders reached the top of the building. Besides, there
was a big wagon that he recognized as the property of the fire patrol;
a wagon filled with rubber blankets, which the men spread over the
goods in the lower stories to protect them from damage by water.
All these things were done so rapidly that Dick was bewildered. The
time was not measured by minutes but by seconds. From the time of the
first tap on the gong till Number Four reached the burning building,
less than two hundred seconds passed. Then in fifty seconds more the
first stream of water was playing upon the fire.
“I saw you going up with the hose,” the battalion chief said when they
returned to the engine-house. “So you have had some experience as a
fireman. Now the men go to work and clean the engine and make ready for
another alarm. We may have another call like that at any moment--or a
much worse one.”
Dick concluded that he had swallowed enough smoke and cinders to give
him a clear idea of fire department work; “but I shall stick it out
through the night,” he said. “I belong to the company at present; and
if the engine goes out again, I go with her.”
There were no more calls that took the engine out that night, and when
he went home in time for breakfast he knew that he had material for one
of his best articles. But writing it occupied the whole day, and the
novel had to stand.
“Now I hope they’ll let me have a week without any more interruptions,”
he said to himself next day when he took up a handful of his latest
pages and read them over to start in the right vein. “I am making as
much money as I did on salary, but I should rather lose a little money
than be interrupted so often. If I could just have a month to myself,
I’d soon finish the book.”
His wish was not quite gratified, but almost. He had days at a time to
go on with his work, and the interruptions were brief. Steadily the
heap of manuscript grew, and nearer and nearer the end approached.
“Now, Dick, you must stop and rest,” Mrs. Sumner said to him one day,
entering the parlor when he had accidentally left the door unlocked.
They all laughed at his habit of locking the door, Dick as well as the
rest. “But it makes me feel so much more secure. I don’t like to feel
that anybody can suddenly walk in and bother me,” he said.
“You must stop and rest,” Mrs. Sumner said. “You’ve been writing and
writing and writing till you’re as pale as a ghost, and I’m sure you
don’t eat anything. Do just look at that pile of pages you’ve written!
I believe it grows an inch or two thicker every day, Dick.”
“Give me a week more, mother,” he replied, “and I’ll take all the rest
you like. Just one week more, and the great book will be finished. I
don’t know how it’s going to turn out, whether it will go or not; but
it will be a relief to have it finished, at any rate.”
“Go!” his mother exclaimed; “what’s the use of talking that way, Dick?
Of course it will go. Everything you’ve ever written, almost, has gone,
and why shouldn’t this? The best publisher in the land will be only too
glad to get it, with your name at the top.”
“Oh, I suppose they’d make a grand scramble for it if they knew
anything about it!” Dick laughed. “They’d be rushing up here with
checks and greenbacks till I’d have to keep a clerk to count them. But
seriously, mother,”--and he got up and put his arm lovingly around his
mother’s waist,--“do you know why I am so anxious to write a successful
novel?”
“Why, to make you rich and famous, I suppose,” Mrs. Sumner answered,
looking proudly up into his face.
“I want to make some money for my sweetheart, mother dear,” Dick said.
“And you are the only sweetheart I ever had or ever expect to have.
Some day Florrie will be leaving us, and she and Darling will have a
house of their own in the city. Then if I have the money and don’t
have to be at the office every day, my little sweetheart and I can
have a snug little cottage out of town somewhere (in Russellville, for
instance), with a lawn in front and a garden behind, and honeysuckle
climbing over the piazza. Then I can write, write, write, all day, as
you put it. I don’t really believe you like living in a flat any better
than I do, little sweetheart.”
“O Dick!” His mother’s head was on his shoulder now, and her voice was
choked with tears. “I’ve never liked it as well as the old house, but
I wouldn’t have said so for the world. But to think of going back to
Russellville and attending my own church again! It’s never seemed like
home in these big city churches, Dick; and I do so like to have a yard
to walk about in. And that’s what my boy has been working so hard for.
O Dick, Dick, what a good son you are! But you’re not growing tired of
newspaper work, are you, Dick?”
“Tired of it!” Dick exclaimed; “why it’s meat and drink to me, mother.
I think I should wilt and wither if I didn’t do some reporting. But if
I can do it occasionally, and at the same time be able to write and
sell novels, you see how nicely everything will go with us. I may be
making a mistake; nobody may like my book.”
“Don’t talk that way, Dick,” his mother said. “You know that everybody
will like it. And I’m afraid you are nearer right than you imagine
about Florrie. I’m afraid that she and Darling will soon be leaving us.”
“All the more haste then for the novel,” Dick laughed. “Let me have
another hour at it this afternoon, and then I’ll take a rest till after
supper.”
Day and night, almost, he continued to struggle with the book; for it
was nothing less than a struggle. To write the story was comparatively
easy; if it had been only a long story, he would have finished it
quickly enough. But a novel is more than a long story. He must develop
the characters of his heroes and heroines, and develop them in such a
way that every incident and every conversation advanced the plot.
When at length it was finished he began to have more doubts about it
than he had felt while he was actually at work. Somehow the bright
points that he had had in mind did not appear so bright when he saw
them on paper. Some of the best of them he had omitted entirely; they
were clear enough in his mind, but they did not get into the manuscript.
“I don’t quite know what to make of it, Darling, now it’s done,” he
said; and Darling noticed a shade of worry in his face. “I can’t tell
for the life of me whether it is good for anything or not.”
“Of course you can’t,” Darling answered. “No writer can form a just
opinion of his own work while it is fresh in his mind. He knows what he
intended to do and say, but whether he really has said and done those
things on paper is beyond his comprehension till the thing cools off. I
don’t pretend to be much of a writer myself, but I am acquainted with
some famous authors and that is what they tell me. The only way to
judge fairly of your own manuscript is to bury it in the bottom of a
deep trunk for a year or two, till you have forgotten all about it. By
that time the characters and the incidents are all new to you, and you
can see the weak points and strengthen them.”
“Ah, if I only could do that!” Dick exclaimed. “But that is possible
only for the millionaires who write for fun or fame. A man who writes
for money cannot afford to do it--at least, not at the start. You
see I have no hesitation in saying that I write for money. Other men
use their brains in great commercial enterprises for money; you use
yours in the service of the Transport for money; Mr. Harding uses his
in editing the paper for money; why should not I use mine in writing
novels for money? I think it is perfectly legitimate.”
“I agree with you,” Darling laughed. “It is perfectly legitimate to
write novels for money; the thing is to get the money. You must give
the public something they want before you can get their money. But I
think it is just as well for you that you can’t afford to let your
manuscript lie for a year before you try to sell it. My honest opinion
is, Dick, that if you were to let that book lie by for a year and then
read it, you would wonder how you could possibly have written anything
quite so bad. Mind you, I say this without knowing anything about your
novel. I say it on general principles. That is the experience of most
writers.”
“It is a very discouraging outlook!” Dick exclaimed.
“Not at all!” Darling asserted. “On the contrary, it is a sure sign of
progress. If you keep on writing for a year, you will know much more
about novels and about literature in general than you know now. You
will judge your early work by higher standards. When a writer looks at
his last year’s work and sees how bad it was, it is a strong indication
that he is doing better work this year, and that he will do still
better next year.”
“I have put my heart and soul into this book, Darling,” Dick burst
out. “That is Besant’s advice to young novelists, you know, and I have
followed it. ‘Drain yourself dry,’ he says, in substance; ‘more heart
and soul will come to you in time for the next one.’ I think I have
done the best I am capable of.”
“Well, if you are going to throw Besant at me,” Darling retorted, “I
will give you some more of him: ‘Always watch how it is looking from
before the footlights,’ he says. That is, see how it appears to the
audience--to the reader. You know what your meaning is, but do you make
it clear and entertaining to the reader? The probabilities are that you
don’t in a first novel.
“No; I am not trying to discourage you,” he went on, seeing the
disappointed look on Dick’s face. “But I know you have your hopes
set very high on this book, and I want to prepare you for what may
happen. You must remember that not every good newspaper writer can
write a good novel. Besides, how many writers have made a success of
a first novel? You don’t need half your fingers to count them on.
However, it is done, and the publishers will have it read by men who
are good judges, and they will form a cool-headed--perhaps I might
say a cool-blooded--opinion of it. That is where the publisher is the
young writer’s best friend, preventing him often from making a fool of
himself in print. It will probably go through the hands of several
readers, for I think it will hardly be bad enough to be condemned
positively by the first man. But now that you have your article
manufactured, what are you going to do with it? Where is your market?”
“I have written to Brounlow & Company, the publishers,” Dick replied,
“(they publish The Illustrated Weekly, you know, so they are familiar
with my work), telling them what I have, and asking them to examine it.
And they have answered that they will be happy to see it. That was the
proper way to go at it, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that is the usual process.”
“And the manuscript is going to them to-morrow, and then we’ll see what
we’ll see.”
With the novel out of the house Dick gave all his time to newspaper
work again, and it seemed so easy and so pleasant after the long daily
tasks he had been doing! It was profitable too, for with his fifteen
dollars a column he made more money than he had made on salary.
He could not reasonably expect to hear from the novel within three or
four weeks, but at the expiration of a fortnight he began to watch his
daily letters for one of the familiar envelopes of Brounlow & Company.
And at length it came, and Dick punished his own impatience by looking
for some time at the outside before he tore it open. There was no
telling what grand offer for the manuscript the letter might contain.
“We have read your novel with much pleasure,” the letter said, “and
we regret that we do not find it suited to our present needs. The
manuscript is returned this day by registered mail.”
Dick did not gasp for breath when he read it, or fall helplessly back
into a chair, but he was terribly disappointed. To be sure, there were
hundreds of other publishers, some of whom might want it; but for
Brounlow & Company to refuse it he considered a bad sign.
Refuse it? Of course that was what it meant. Dick had heard of such
letters before. A merchant says bluntly that he doesn’t want the goods
that are offered him; but a publisher, more polite, reads everything
offered with a pleasure little short of delight, and is torn with
poignant regret over what he is compelled to send back.
For the next few months the postoffice department derived considerable
revenue from Dick’s novel. After the Brounlow incident he sent it
to Whitelow & Company, who read it with interest and returned it by
registered mail. Pinklow & Company, Greenlow & Company, Blacklow &
Company,--all the primary colors and many of the tints took it under
consideration; some read it with interest and some with pleasure, but
they were all of one mind about returning it by registered mail.
“It’s a dead, flat failure, old fellow!” the unsuccessful author said
to Darling when he concluded to waste no more postage stamps.
“It’s a pretty strong verdict against it, that’s a fact,” Darling
admitted. “Suppose you let me read it some day before you plant it in
the bottom of your trunk.”
“You’re a lucky fellow, Dick,” was Darling’s opinion after the reading.
“If anybody had published that, you’d never have stopped kicking
yourself. It’s as different from your newspaper work as day is from
night--worse I mean. Occasionally there is a gleam of intellect in it,
too. I should hardly fill up my trunk with it, unless you’re in need of
ballast.”
Florrie’s was the only dissenting voice. “There’s a conspiracy against
you, Dick,” she insisted. “You have done something or other to offend
those publishers, or their readers are jealous of your splendid work
and don’t intend to give you a chance. It’s perfectly shameful the way
they treat you!”
But Florrie had not read the novel.