that’s good! Imagine me a quarter-mile champion! It’s too strange to
think of.”
“Strange things, Dickie. There, that’s for you.”
In the line of starters Dickie was second from the pole. Big Keswick was
inside him, Stevenson outside, and Sullivan second outside Stevenson.
Dickie at once made himself acquainted with Keswick’s tactics. One or two
false starts convinced him that Keswick’s right elbow was intended for
a prominent part in the contest. Dickie knew that Keswick expected to
have it all his own way when it came to close quarters. But there was a
way. Dickie had no notion of letting Keswick’s cruel elbow rob him of the
pole. There was always a way to deal with such tactics.
“Starters ready?”
“Ready!”
“Timers ready?”
“Ready—ready, all ready!”
“Get on your marks. Set—stea-a-d-d-y. Come up. Man at the pole, be
careful. Now—on your marks. Get set—”
Bang! Dickie promptly caught the hook of Keswick’s plunging right elbow
in the angle of his own left. Keswick was spun half-round and Dickie shot
in. “That for Kessie!” muttered Dickie. The judges saw it, but it raised
only a smile all round and an appreciative comment from one. “That big
fellow tried it that time, didn’t he? An old trick of his, Ludwig says,
but the little fellow was too clever.”
Dickie ran like mad for the turn. He got it, with Stevenson outside him,
a little back, and Keswick directly behind. All the runners turned the
curve in fine style. It promised to be a hot race. The audience was
already applauding vigorously.
Dickie motioned to Stevenson. “I’ll cut loose the whole length of the
back-stretch. Don’t try to keep up—let Keswick chase me if he cares to;
watch Sullivan, and wait for the turn.” That was not put in so many
words, but had it been written out, Stevenson could not have read the
motions more plainly.
It was a rare pace that Dickie set. The bunch tore round the lower curve
as if they were to run only two hundred and twenty yards.
“This is going to be warm,” said a group of old-timers under the willows.
“Look at that!” yelled the crowd. Dickie had shot away from the others.
Big Keswick was at his heels. Keswick’s plans had been interfered with.
He was there to take care of Haskins, but things had been changed. This
pace was a “scorcher.” What did it mean?
It was a beautiful sprint the whole length of the back-stretch. Dickie
was ten yards, Keswick eight yards in front. Stevenson and Sullivan were
running stride for stride, the Webster man inside, a yard or two ahead of
Sullivan.
Swinging into the upper curve, Dickie signaled to Stevenson, and then
imperceptibly slowed up the pace. Keswick naturally trailed behind.
Without understanding how it was brought about, he felt the relief,
and was well content to take it. Dickie knew Keswick was in no trim to
interfere with what was soon going to happen.
Dickie felt Stevenson coming easily. Again he signaled, this time
looking back to see that all was well. Stevenson moved up to Keswick’s
flank and nodded. The last turn was before them. Dickie, suddenly darting
forward, opened up several yards. Keswick was too surprised and too
tired to understand at once. Stevenson strode past him and dropped into
Dickie’s tracks. Dickie, on the corner, swung wide and Stevenson slid
inside. The pole and the lead were his.
Sullivan had his choice of following Stevenson or running outside Dickie.
He chose to follow Stevenson. To let him by, Keswick was compelled to
pull up and lose his chance for a place. Dickie, seeing how Sullivan
had chosen, promptly dropped back a yard to Sullivan’s flank. That put
Sullivan in a close pocket.
It was all most prettily done. The grand stand got up on its toes to
cheer it. The experts under the willows hurled big words of praise out to
Dickie.
After that maneuver, Dickie felt that he had no more strength left. It
was an immense relief to him to think that the strain of his work was
past, and that Stevie was in a good way now to win the race. But he must
give a final word of cheer to Stevie before he was left behind.
“Go in, Steve, go in now! That’s the boy! All right, you’ve got it
cinched. Go on! What’s the matter?”
Dickie, looking up at his chum’s face, saw an expression that made his
heart sink. There was despair in Stevenson’s eyes.
Others saw, and understood. From under the willows came encouraging
cries to Sullivan: “Go in, Scotia! You’ve got him! He’s all in! He’s a
quitter, anyway, and the little fellow’s used up. Come out of that box,
Sully, and win!”
Dickie heard this. Stevenson heard it, too, and it did him no good.
Sullivan heard, also, and acted on it. He worked out of the pocket to
Dickie’s side. Dickie looked at Sullivan, saw only a grim resolve there,
and in despair appealed to Stevenson.
“O Stevie, go in! Only half the stretch! You can do it! Go in!”
Stevenson made no answer, but to Dickie’s dismay, fell down, as if
exhausted, on the grass.
Dickie, without looking again, felt the courage of the Scotian beside
him. There was no giving in there. The race was lost!
But was it lost? He did what had never entered his head until that
instant. The import of Ludwig’s last words flashed on him. Had Stevenson
really quit? He did not seem used up. And after everything had worked so
nicely! What a shame for Webster!
It was in the blindest kind of way that Dickie pegged on beside Sullivan.
Only for that work on the turn and Sullivan would have been yards ahead!
What a runner this Sullivan was! Dickie was marveling that he held up
with him.
The audience was marveling, too. They were frantic, some for Sullivan,
but most for Dickie, because he was so small and had borne his previous
share so nobly. Their yells were deafening. But Dickie never heard them.
He was taken up with a different thing—with the unbearable strain of
the race. Every nerve in his body quivered under the rack of his effort.
Every little molecule and atom was crying out with the torture of it—but
would not Webster be disgraced if he did not win? He knew what they
would all say. Could he make it? Still behind—what a hard fighter—this
Sullivan! He would never underrate a Scotian again.
One foot and twenty yards to go. Now then! No use. O Dickie! Who called?
All Webster was calling. O Dickie! What a horrible thing! Hot, heavy iron
in his loins—great lead weights on his feet—and his chest! What an awful
collapse in his chest! Would it hold out? And his knees—if they would but
keep off the ground he would win yet.
A foot, still a foot—what an awful lot to make up! Half a foot! Was
Sullivan going, too? Ten yards—even! Was it even? Was it worth this awful
agony? Even—one more, two more, another—and—sh-h-h!
It was the frenzied Ludwig who caught him as he fell. And it was Ludwig
and MacArthur who bore him in a blanket across the field and laid him on
two thicknesses of mats in the athletic building. It was these two, and a
doctor from among the officials, who worked on him until he knew where he
was.
It was Ludwig on one side, sponging his face, and MacArthur on the other,
drying him off, when he looked up with the first sign of intelligence.
“There you are, you little bronco! Changed your mind and came back to
life, did you? Know what we’ve a good mind to do to you? A little of
this, now—there, how’s that? That’s witch-hazel we’re rubbing on. Sniff
it up, that’s right. Fine, eh? Feel better than when you crossed the
tape-rather! Get up? Not for a while yet—not till the carriage comes.
“Who won? Why, you, of course!”
“I didn’t know. I was almost afraid to ask—afraid it was Sullivan. Last I
remember he was ahead. Couldn’t see—”
“Ahead? I should say he was ahead until a yard from the string, and then
a miracle happened. Of course you couldn’t see. Wonder you could breathe
after that finish—and setting the pace all the way round! Why, your
knees weren’t six inches off the ground! You crossed on your hands and
knees—crossed, no, you never crossed—you fell over, and Sullivan fell
alongside. Wait till Webster gets hold of you.”
“Poor Sullivan, wasn’t he game? And we beat Scotia?”
“Beat them, yes, and won the banner—champions again.”
“Won the banner—that’s good. And Richard L. Haskins won the quarter.
That’ll look fine in the morning paper. Won’t the people at home read
that, though? But, Mr. Ludwig—Stevie—how’s Stevie?”
“Stevenson’s all right. No, lie down—he’s not here. He’s gone to the
station to catch an early train home.”
“Poor Stevie—I know—you don’t want to tell me,” whispered Dickie.
“Now, now, Dickie, I’ll handle the sponge.” Ludwig bent lower. “Sh-h-h!
There, there, let Mac pull the hood over, and nobody will know. Go ahead,
don’t mind me and Mac; we understand.”
Ludwig plied the sponge and MacArthur the towel. And so deftly did they
work that in all that room no other knew that under the hood of the
bath-robe they were wiping away Dickie’s tears of pity for Stevenson.
HOLDING THE PIPE
By Albert W. Tolman
As the father of Billy and Jack Remfry emerged from the sitting-room
closet with the checker-board, the two boys sidled up to him. Billy
hugged an armful of rockets, while Jack was generously laden with
firecrackers and Roman candles. “Aren’t you going with us to Steel
Bridge? You promised.”
Tom Remfry hesitated. Fourth of July night though it was, he could not
forego his weekly battle with Lon Penfield, his fellow fireman and
ancient checker foe. So he compromised. “Run along, boys. I’ll come after
just one game. Don’t point those rockets toward the city.”
Whooping, the boys made off. Tom and Lon sat down to the board,
undisturbed by the noise outside. This game was unusually important, for
Lon’s victory the Saturday before had tied them with seventeen apiece.
While they whittled down each other’s forces, Henry Marcot, watchman in
Bustin’s lumber-yard, was uneasily watching three boys with firecrackers
just outside the fence. So engrossed was Henry with the foe in front that
he did not observe a flaming rocket-stick which, after soaring far and
high, dropped quietly upon a hard-pine board-pile behind him. Startled by
a sudden crackling, he looked back to see the whole pile ablaze.
When the rocket fell, Remfry’s four kings were beleaguering Penfield’s
remaining three in the latter’s dodge-corner. Marcot pulled the yard
alarm just as an incautious onslaught cost the besieger two pieces to his
enemy’s one, and left the game a draw.
_Clang! Clang!_
Over went the board and up leaped both call-men. Out they darted, Remfry
snapping his spring-lock, and ran at top speed for the house of Hose 5.
The cart was rattling into the street when they jumped abroad.
“Where’s the fire?” halloed Remfry to Louville Craig, his elbow neighbor
on the swaying wagon.
“Bustin’s lumber-yard!” Craig shouted. “They say a rocket from Steel
Bridge started it.”
Remfry caught his breath as if doused with cold water. Steel Bridge! One
of his boys’ rockets! His heart went down like lead. Oh, why had he not
gone with them and given up his game! But it was too late now. That very
thing had been the nightmare of the fire department ever since he joined
it—a blaze in the worst place and under the worst conditions.
The city stood west of the river on three terraces. The first contained
lumber-yards, coal-sheds and mills; the second, thirty feet higher,
held the railroad-tracks and business section; while the third, thirty
feet higher still, was covered with residences. Unless the flames were
checked, the east wind would drive them against an oil-tank right above
the yard on the edge of the second terrace. That once afire, the whole
city might be wiped out.
As Hose 5 clattered across the railroad gridiron between hurrying crowds,
Remfry sighted the yard, and felt sick. The pine was blazing fiercely,
sending out a dense yellowish-black smoke. The second alarm began to
clang, calling out the whole force.
The cart stopped near the engine, which was already in position. The two
call-men rapidly donned rubber coats and helmets, while their mates took
the butt of the hose off the wagon and rushed it to the hydrant.
“Run a line up Adams Street, you two, back of the yard!” shouted Capt.
Joe Porter. It was the post of responsibility in the very track of the
flames, and he picked his best men for it. Penfield and Remfry again
jumped on the hose-cart.
“Go ahead!” yelled the hydrant man to the driver. Off rattled the wagon,
dropping a lengthening trail of hose. The instant they stopped, the
firemen screwed on the pipe and began to drag the line toward the yard.
Close by stood the oil-tank, big and black, with the smoke eddying
thickly round it. Thirty feet below lay the lumber piles. Dropping their
hose over the edge of the stone wall, they slid down to the ground.
“Play away, 5!” shouted Remfry, pulling down more line. They were in a
space between high board-piles, and a strong wind was driving the fire
and smoke toward them. The spot might easily become a dangerous trap.
“Come on, Tom!” bellowed Penfield, tugging at the pipe. “Let’s get well
in before the water comes.”
The piles were twenty feet apart. Round a corner twice as far ahead red
tongues were spurting. Already the air was hot and thick. Crouching, they
dragged the line along several yards. Remfry was wild with impatience. He
was responsible for that fire. He must put it out.
“Far enough!” he gasped at last. “Isn’t that water ever coming?”
It was fully five hundred feet to the engine. A few lengths from it the
three-inch hose was “Siamesed” off into two smaller lines, one of which
ran to the impatient call-men. Suddenly a tremor shook the closely woven
cotton.
“Here it is!” exclaimed Penfield.
_Psht! Psht!_ hissed the nozzle. Spasmodically at first, but in a few
seconds foaming strongly under a two-hundred pound pressure, the water
came. The two rested the pipe over their knees, grasping the handles
firmly, interlocking fingers under the tip. A powerful white jet was soon
bombarding the burning pine.
The hose stiffened under their hands, responsive to every impulse from
the engine. It was like a live thing, struggling to escape. But they knew
its tricks, and held it hard. Three years they had been together on the
pipe, and never once had it got away from them.
At the very apex of the fire they literally held the safety of the city
in their hands. Behind them loomed the gaunt, black oil-tank. Should the
flames reach its ten thousand gallons nothing could save the city.
Remfry groaned at the thought. He envied Penfield. Penfield had only the
fire to think of. That was bad enough, to be sure. But it was tenfold
worse for him, Tom Remfry, to feel that he might have prevented all this,
had he only gone to Steel Bridge with his boys.
Low as they might stoop, they could not avoid the smoke. Their smarting
eyes could barely see to direct the jet. Both were choking. Penfield
leaned forward and thrust his hand into the stream to spray his face.
His foot slipped; he lost his balance; his grip on the handle loosened.
With a tremendous leap the pipe wrenched out of the men’s grasp, and
disappeared straight up in the thick smoke.
A deluge burst above the firemen. The hose had changed from their best
friend to their worst enemy. It whipped the board-piles; it slapped full
length on the ground to their right; vanishing, it dropped a moment later
on their left. Fearful in plain sight, it was doubly, trebly terrible in
that impenetrable pitchiness. One rap from the crazy nozzle would smash a
man’s skull.
Remfry grabbed Penfield’s shoulder. Their first impulse was to run; but
where? Straight ahead was the only way out; and the fire barred that.
Behind rose the thirty-foot wall.
Instinct told Remfry the only spot where for a brief period they might be
comparatively safe.
“Back to the corner!” he whispered, hoarsely; and the two ran for their
lives. Once the nozzle jabbed Penfield in the spine. Then Remfry ducked
in time to lose only his helmet from a flying loop of hose. Soon they
were crouching in the angle between the wall and a board-pile.
But the flames would soon drive them from this refuge. Besides, the chief
counted on them to fight back the fire from the oil-tank. The force had
its hands full. Every man and every line were busy. Somehow they must
signal the engine to shut the water off, until they could regain control
of the pipe.
“Hold on, 5!” shrieked Remfry. And Penfield seconded him with:
“Shut that line down!”
But no answering cry came back. It was not strange. Two men under a high
wall, throats full of smoke and cinders, could hardly make themselves
heard above the roar of the flames and the hissing of water, capped by
the whirring and puffing of seven engines.
Desperate as was their own situation, the firemen’s first thought was
of the ruin threatened by the fire. The destruction of the lumber-yard
was bad enough, but the whole city—every business block, every dwelling,
their own homes—it was horrible! Remfry remembered he had just paid for
his house, and that he had no insurance.
Meanwhile the fire was growing hotter; shriveling blasts swept against
the wall. Hot, stinging pitch-pine smoke filled their eyes and lungs. The
nozzle was vainly cascading every spot except the one that needed it.
It maddened Remfry to see so much good water wasting. Every gallon was
priceless. He could stand it no longer.
“No use, Lon!” he croaked, putting his mouth dose to his comrade’s ear.
“We can’t make ’em hear. We’ve got to catch that pipe.”
Both knew well the peril they risked. Three months before had not a
flying nozzle snapped Billy Bowen’s leg! But they must take chances.
Remfry slunk along the right-hand board-pile; Penfield followed the left.
Should one get his hands on the hose, the other was to spring to his help.
The dense smoke thinned, and they glimpsed the line, slatting like a
maddened python. Three or four clutches at the elusive loops resulted
only in their being flung down and dragged in the dirt.
Through those moments of exhausting struggle, of harrowing suspense,
dread of the fire creeping ever nearer the oil, destruction menacing the
entire city, Remfry’s brain was busy with the terrible thought that he
and his boys were responsible for it all.
The clouds lifted. Remfry saw the coil whip toward Penfield. There came
a thud. Lon was swept off his feet, and dashed against the board-pile.
Dropping like a lump of clay, he lay motionless. Remfry thought his mate
was killed. He faced the hose with sudden fury.
Just then it caught for an instant under the end of a board. His chance!
Hurling himself upon it, he wound both arms about the swelling tube just
as it got away again.
Twining arms and legs round the hose, he hitched slowly forward. The
whole thing now was on him, _him_! Lon could not help any more. Inch by
inch he crept along the squirming tube, hugging it bearishly. It flirted
him from one side to the other, rolling him in the dirt. It humped itself
like a bucking bronco. Once it tossed him against the boards, almost
fracturing his ribs. In spite of all he did not let go; for he knew he
could never get hold again.
A weak cry made him look back. Under the smoke he caught sight of
Penfield, struggling to rise. He had only been stunned. A great weight
fell from Remfry’s mind, and he clung with fresh strength.
“Take your time, Lon!” he shouted. “I’ll hold it down.”
Huge, black, formless, fiery-eyed, spitting forky flame, the
conflagration overshadowed him, like a gigantic Chinese dragon, the
spirit of ruin personified. Against its searing breath he crawled, now
prone, now tossed aloft, battered, smoke-stifled, but creeping steadily
on.
The end of the big tube was not far away. Remfry could tell that, for its
oscillations were growing shorter and more violent. The part conquered
lay quiet behind him. But somewhere in the smoke in front the metal pipe
was brandishing like the snapper of a whip-lash.
With lightning suddenness down it smashed on the hose not three inches
before his fingers. Had it struck his hand, it would have splintered
every bone. The polished brass glinted as it gyrated wildly away. The
next few feet would be the most perilous, for at any second the nozzle
might crack his skull.
The hot black smoke puffed along the ground· Remfry butted blindly into
it, lowering his face, till his lips brushed the dirt. Inch after inch of
hard round tube slipped back under him and grew quiet. With eyes closed
tight he wriggled on. When he was within a yard of the pipe, he knew it
would stop slatting.
The moment came sooner than he had expected. With one final flirt the
nozzle gave up, conquered, and the jet began to furrow the chips and
dirt. A second later Remfry’s fingers touched the brass handles.
Soon Penfield was beside him, his strength and consciousness fully
restored; and they took up once more their battle with the flames.
It was well toward morning before the fire was out, and the two started
for home. Remfry felt better. The city was safe. Still the thousands of
dollars’ worth of lumber that had gone up in smoke hung, a black, heavy
pall, above his conscience. He dreaded to meet Jack and Billy.
As he stumbled on, a sentence from a passer-by caught his ear:
“Started by a rocket from Triangle Hill, across the river.”
He gripped the man’s arm.
“Are you sure?” he almost shouted.
“Sure,” briefly rejoined the stranger, looking in surprise at his
begrimed, excited questioner.
Remfry dropped his arm. So his boys were not responsible, after all.
Bruised, muddy, saturated with pitch-pine smoke, every muscle aching, he
resumed his way homeward, his mind at peace.
THE TRAVELLING DOLL
By Evelyn Snead Barnett
Before the serpent came in the guise of a French doll, it was a gay
little Eden of a shanty-boat. Its doors were plaid-paneled in red, green
and blue; its tiny square window-frames were painted blue on one side of
the house, red on the other, and green at the back. Here, to be sure, the
paint grew thin and failed to hold out for the walls, although gathering
with a mixture of its three tints it sprawled in a final effort to tell
that the name of the little home was _The Wing_.
But a short distance from the mainland _The Wing_ rested, anchored to
a green island. A skiff was tied to its front mast and a single plank
connected the shanty-boat with the great world—typical of the slender
thread that bound the floating family to their kind, for the Wings did
not consort with other shanty-boaters.
Inside, the little abode was as gay as its exterior, and far more tidy.
The stove and its tins were polished “to the nines,” the strips of rag
carpet were bright and clean, the table was scoured white, the bed was
neatly made, and under it the family wardrobe was out of sight in a long,
black, brass-nailed box. A gaudy clock ticked noisily from a shelf; a
tall lamp, in a rainbow-paper shade, the pride and glory of the home, sat
by its side. The wall was covered with bright posters; everywhere were
gay colors and shining cleanliness.
And they were a satisfied family,—before the serpent came,—Father Wing
being a sturdy, silent fisherman, who could always be counted upon to
make a living, catching it on water and spending it on land, and finding
comfort in his gentle wife and ten-year-old daughter.
To-day he was off fishing, and Mrs. Wing sat inside the sill of the plaid
doorway, sewing on a high-necked, long-sleeved gingham apron, her head
turned in a listening attitude that was habitual. Outside on the little
deck piazza, in a starched mate to the apron her mother was making,
little Almira sat, hugging Botsey and feeling rather lonely; for although
her father had left the skiff and taken Wally Jim away, Sweepins had
surreptitiously followed.
Almira was barelegged and towheaded, but she had a fair skin that defied
exposure, and her face had never lost its baby curves. Her eyes were as
blue as the river on a clear day, and her mouth had a tender droop, as if
she were always feeling sorry for something or some one. She was tilting
her little stool, humming a song to Botsey, when her mother said:
“I hear voices. Who’s on shore, Almira?”
Almira looked. “They’s two of ’em, ma. They’re beck’ning me to come for
’em. One’s Miss May, and the other’s got lace on her petticoat and fuzzy
things round her neck.”