“Well,” the chief said to Keighley, when they were alone again in the
bows, “I guess your company’s all right, Dan. If those four men go into
court against Doherty, it lets me out. I’ve got no kick coming.” He
smiled a satisfied slow smile. “Their association isn’t as strong as it
was, eh?”
Keighley passed a worried hand over his forehead. “Chief,” he said,
“I’ve had a good deal o’ trouble in the las’ two months, an’ I’ve
been doin’ a lot o’ thinkin’. An I want to tell yuh this: Here’s this
fire department as clean as anyone’d want it, an’ here’s ev’ry other
department in this town, between you an’ me, gettin’ rotten with graft.
Why don’t politics get a hold on us.” He leaned forward poking out his
forefinger. “’Cause politics can’t put out a fire, an’ a fire, when it
starts, has _got_ to be put out, er the whole damn town goes up. Yuh
can’t fool with a fire.”
“Well?” the chief said.
“Well,” Keighley went on, “that’s where the ‘Jiggers’ fell down. An’ if
_you’ve_ come back to the department to pound ‘Jiggers’ an’ knife the
men ’at knifed you, that’s where _you’ll_ fall down. Don’t get on yer
ear, now. If this ain’t true, yuh needn’t mind it. An’ if it _is_ true,
yuh can’t change it by gettin’ sore on me.”
“Go ahead,” the chief said. “Get it out of your system.”
Keighley nodded. “These ‘Jiggers’ here tried to stick me, instead of
attendin’ to their bus’ness--an’ they pretty near curled up their toes
in the bottom o’ the _Sachsen_. Moran tried to stick me at that lumber
yard blaze, an’ if it hadn’t been fer the way m’ own men stood by me
he’d’ve been burned out of his job. I attended to my work an’ treated
‘Jigger’ an’ anti-‘Jigger’ the same. An’ with Moran an the Commissioner
an’ the whole bunch tryin’ to trip me up, here I am still. There’s
somethin’ in it, I tell yuh. There’s somethin’ in it.”
The chief tugged at his mustache.
“There’s the police,” Keighley went on. “They’re rotten--’cause
they’re playin’ politics. Here’s the firemen--the same breed as the
policemen--an’ yuh never hear a word against ’em. Why? ’Cause our
work’s too hot fer a grafter--an’ too hot fer a politician--an’ too
hot fer a ‘Jigger,’ unless he’s a fireman first an’ a ‘Jigger’ after.
You put back the men that Moran shifted, an’ let it go at that. If yuh
do more, yuh’ll do worse. An’ yuh’ll end up in a hole. That’s _my_
opinion.”
The chief said, “Moran’s going to get out. There’ll be a promotion from
the battalion-chiefs. Do you want to quit here an’ go on up?”
“D’ yuh mean do I want a battalion?”
“Yes.”
Keighley shook his head. “Not on yer life.”
“Why not?”
He looked out at the pierhouse, which they were approaching. “I like
what I got. I been three months gettin’ things into shape here. It’s a
good crew. It’s a hell of a good boat.”
“You’ll have a softer thing in the other.”
Keighley smiled crookedly. “Too much desk work. I ain’t happy unless I
got a fire in front o’ me. When I want somethin’ softer, I’ll take my
half pay an’ quit.”
“All right.” Borden stretched out his hand. “I hope that won’t be for a
good many years yet, Dan. Good-bye.”
Keighley fumbled over the proffered hand. He was not used to the
amenities. “Good-bye. I hope this’ll end the ‘Jigger’ bus’ness.”
The chief nodded. They shook hands solemnly. “I think it will.”
* * * * *
And it did. Deputy-Chief Moran remained in his position; and through
him it was announced to the “Jiggers” that a general amnesty had been
declared, and that no “Jigger-jumper” would be punished for belonging
to his “benevolent association” unless he tried to use his membership
to intrigue for promotion, or allowed himself to be so used. That
policy was in the end so successful that the “Jiggers” lost even their
distinctive name; and the term “Jigger-jumper” is applied now, in
department slang, to all “blue-shirts” who run at the call of that
peremptory little bell to risk their lives and do their duty.
Ask them! Ask any of Keighley’s men. Ask “Shine.” “We’re all
Jigger-jumpers,” he will tell you. “An’ it keeps us on the jump.
_On the jump!_ You bet.... There it goes again.... That’s in
our--Seeyullater!” Then--as _he_ hurries from the sitting room to the
pier--you will see “Old Clinkers” issue from the office, with his coat
on his arm, glance at the clock, flick you one keen look from a cold
grey eye as he goes by, and clear his throat to call from the doorway,
with all the confidence of unquestioned command, “All right, boys. Let
her go!”