One night Keith was awakened by Nan's suddenly sitting up in bed. There
came to his struggling consciousness the persistent steady clangour of
many deep bells. Slowly recognition filtered into his mind--the fire
bells!
He hastily pulled on some clothes and ran down the front stairs,
stumbling over Gringo, who uttered an outraged yelp. From the street he
could see a red glow in the sky. At top speed he ran down the street in
the direction of the Monumental. In the half darkness he could make out
other figures running. The deep tones of the bells continued to smite
his ear, but now in addition he heard the tinkling and clinking of
innumerable smaller bells--those on the machines. He dashed around a
corner to encounter a double line of men, running at full speed,
hauling on a long rope attached to an engine. Their mouths were open,
and they were all yelling. The light engine careened and swayed and
bumped. Two men clung to the short steering tongue, trying to guide it.
They were thrown violently from side to side, dragged here and there,
tripping, hauling, falling across the tongue, but managing to keep the
machine from dashing off at a tangent. Above them, high and precarious,
swayed the short stout figure of Bert Taylor. He was in full
regalia--leather helmet, heavy leather belt, long-tailed coat, and in
his free hand the chased silver speaking trumpet with the red tassels
that usually hung on the wall. He was in his glory, dominating the
horde. His keen eye, roving everywhere, seeing everything, saw Keith.
"Catch hold!" he roared through the trumpet.
Keith made a flying grab at a vacant place on the line, caught it, was
almost jerked from his feet, recovered himself, and charged on, yelling
like the rest.
But now Bert Taylor began to shriek something excitedly. It became
evident, from glimpses caught down the side streets, but especially
through the many vacant lots, that another engine was paralleling their
own course a block away.
"Jump her, boys, jump her!" shrieked Bert Taylor. "For God's sake,
don't let those Eurekas beat you!"
He danced about on top of the waterbox of the engine, in imminent peril
of being jerked from his place, battering his silver trumpet insanely
against the brake rods, beseeching, threatening profanely. And
profanity at that time was a fine art. Men studied its alliteration,
the gorgeousness of its imagery, the blast of its fire. The art has
been lost, existing still, in a debased form, only among mule drivers,
sailors, and the owners of certain makes of automobiles. The men on the
rope responded nobly. The roar of their going over the plank road was
like hollow thunder. A man dropped out. Next day it was discovered he
had broken his leg in a hole. At tremendous speed they charged through
the ring of spectators, and drew up, proud and panting, victors by a
hundred feet, to receive the plaudits of the multitude. A handsome man
on a handsome horse rode up.
"Monumentals on the fire! Eurekas on cistern number twenty!" he
commanded briefly.
This was Charles Duane, the unpaid fire chief; a likable, efficient
man, but too fond of the wrong sort of friends.
Now it became evident to Keith why Bert Taylor had urged them so
strongly in the race. The fire was too distant from the water supply to
be carried in one length of hose. Therefore, one engine was required to
relay to another, pumping the water from the cistern, through the hose,
and into the waterbox of the other engine. The other engine pumped it
from its own waterbox on to the fire. The latter, of course, was the
position of honour.
The Eurekas fell back grumbling, and uttering open threats to wash
their rivals. By this they meant that they would pump water into the
Monumentals faster than the latter could pump it out, thus overflowing
and eternally disgracing them. They dropped their suction hose into the
cistern, and one of their number held the end of the main hose over a
little trapdoor in the Monumental's box. The crews sprang to the long
brake handles on either side, and at once the regular _thud, thud,
thud_ of the pumps took up its rhythm. The hose writhed and swelled;
the light engines quivered. Bert Taylor and the Eureka foreman, Carter
by name, walked back and forth as on their quarterdecks, exhorting
their men. Relays, in uniform assumed on the spot, stood ready at hand.
Nobody in either crew knew or cared anything whatsoever about the fire.
As the race became closer, the foremen got more excited, begging their
crews to increase the stroke, beating their speaking trumpets into
shapeless battered relics. An astute observer would now have understood
one reason why the jewellery stores carried such a variety of fancy
speaking trumpets. They were for presentation by grateful owners after
the fire had been extinguished, and it was generally necessary to get a
new one for each fire.
Keith, acting under previous instructions, promptly seized a helmet and
poleaxe and made his way to the front. The fire had started in one of
many flimsy wooden buildings, and had rapidly spread to threaten a
whole district. Men from the hook and ladder companies were already at
work on some of the hopeless cases. A fireman or two mounted ladders to
the eaves, dragging with them a heavy hook on the end of a long pole.
Cutting a small hole with their axes, they hooked on this apparatus and
descended. As many firemen and volunteers as could get hold of the pole
and the rope attached to it, now began to pull.
"Yo, heave ho!" they cried.
The timbers cracked, broke, the whole side of the house came out with a
grand and satisfying crash. An inferno of flame was thereby laid open
to the streams from the hose lines. It was grand destructive fun for
everybody, especially for the boys of all ages, which included in
spirit about every male person present.
This sort of work was intended, of course, to confine or check the fire
within the area already affected, and could accomplish nothing toward
saving the structures already alight. The roar of the flames, the
hissing of firebrands sucked upward, the crash of timbers, the shrieks
of the foremen through their trumpets, the yells of applause or of
sarcasm from the crowd, and the _thud, thud, thud, thud_ of numerous
brake bars made a fine pandemonium. Everybody except the owners or
tenants of the buildings was delighted.
Keith, with two others, was instructed to carry the Monumental nozzle
to the roof of a house not afire. Proudly they proceeded to use their
scaling ladders. These were a series of short sections, each about six
feet long, the tops slightly narrower than the bottoms. By means of
slots these could be fitted together. First, Keith erected one of them
against the wall of the building, at an angle, and ascended it,
carrying another section across his shoulder. When he reached a certain
rung, which was painted red, he thrust his foot through the ladder and
against the wall, pushed the ladder away from the wall, and fitted the
section he was carrying to the top of the section on which he was
standing. He then hauled up another section and repeated. When the
ladder had reached to the eaves, he and his companions dragged the
squirting, writhing hose up with them, chopped footholds in the roof,
and lay flat to look over the ridgepole as over a breastwork. All this
to the tune of admiring plaudits and with a pleasing glow of heroism.
There was a skylight, but either they overlooked or scorned that
prosaic expedient.
At the other end of the ridgepole Keith made out the dark forms of two
men from another company. His own companions, acting under orders, now
descended the ladder, leaving him alone.
The next building was a raging furnace, and on it Keith directed the
heavy stream from his nozzle. It was great fun. At first the water
seemed to have no effect whatever, but after a little it began to win.
The flames were beaten back, broken into detachments. Finally, Keith
got to the point of chasing down small individual outbreaks, driving
them into their lairs, drowning them as they crouched. He was wholly
interested, and the boy in him, with a shamefaced half apology to the
man in him, pretended that he was a soldier directing a battery against
an enemy.
Along the ridgepole cautiously sidled the two men of the other company,
dragging their hose. Keith now recognized them. One was a vivid,
debonair, all-confident, magnetic individual named Talbot Ward, a
merchant, promoter, speculator, whom everybody liked and trusted; the
other a fair Hercules of a man, slow and powerful in everything, called
Frank Munro.
"Look here," said Ward, "does it strike you this roof's getting hot?"
Recalled to himself, Keith immediately became aware of the fact.
"The house is afire beneath us," said Ward; "we've got to get out."
"What's the matter with your ladder?" asked Keith.
"They took it away."
"We'll use mine."
They let themselves cautiously down the footholds that had been chopped
in the roof, and looked over. A blast of smoke and flame met them in
the face.
"Good Lord, she's all afire!" cried Keith, aghast.
The flames were licking around the scaling ladder, which was already
blazing. Keith directed the stream from his hose straight down, but
with no other result than to break the charred ladder.
They crawled back to the ridgepole, and worked their hose lines around
to the end of the building, out of the flames. Here a two-story drop
confronted them.
"This thing is going to fall under us if we don't do something,"
muttered Ward.
"Duane's forgotten us, and those crazy idiots at the engines are too
busy trying to keep from being washed," surmised Keith.
"Look here," said Munro suddenly; "I'll brace against a chimney and
hang on to the hose, and you can slide down it like a rope."
"How about you?" demanded Ward crisply.
"You can run for more ladders, once you're on the ground."
At this moment the water failed in Keith's hose. He stared at the
nozzle, then rapidly began to unscrew it.
"Cistern empty or hose burst," surmised Munro.
But Talbot Ward, cocking his ear toward a distant pandemonium of
cheering, guessed the true cause.
"Sucked," said he. By this he meant that the Monumental crew had
succeeded in emptying their water box in spite of the Eureka's best
efforts.
"Get off your nozzle quick!" urged Keith.
Munro, without stopping to ask why, bent his great strength to the
task; and it was a task, for in his hose the pressure of the water was
tremendous. It spurted back all over him, and at the last the nozzle
was fairly blown away from him.
"Now couple my hose to yours quick, quick, before my hose fills!" cried
Keith.
"They won't go--" Munro began to object.
"Yes, they will, mine's a special thread," urged Keith, who had
remembered Bert Taylor's reversed nozzle.
All three bent their energies to catching the threads. It was a fearful
job, for the strength of the water had first to be overcome. Keith was
terribly excited. Time was precious, for not only might the roof give
way beneath them, but at any moment the water might come again in
Keith's hose. Then it would be physically impossible to make the
coupling. All three men concentrated their efforts on it, their feet
gripping the irregularities of the roof or slipping on the shingles.
Frank Munro bent his enormous back to the task, the veins standing out
in his temples, his face turning purple with the effort. Keith helped
him as well as he was able. Talbot Ward, coolly, deliberately,
delicately, as though he had all the time in the world, manipulated the
coupling, feeling gingerly for the thread. The water spurted, fanned,
sprayed, escaping with violence, first at one point, then at another,
drenching and blinding them.
"There!" breathed Ward at last, and with a few twists, of his sinewy
hands brought the couplings into close connection. Munro relaxed,
drawing two or three deep breaths. Without the aid of his great
strength the task could not have been accomplished.
"Hook her over the chimney," gasped Keith.
With some difficulty they lifted the loop of the throbbing hose over
the chimney.
"Down we go!" cried Keith, and slid hand over hand down the way thus
made for them. The others immediately followed, and all three stood
looking back. It was a wonder the building had stood so long, for in
both stories it was afire, and the walls had apparently burned quite
through. Indeed, a moment later the whole structure collapsed. A
fountain of sparks and brands sprang upward in the mighty suction.
"There goes our good hose!" said Keith.
The remark brought them to wrath and a desire for vengeance.
"I'm going to lick somebody!" cried Keith, starting determinedly in the
direction of the engine.
"We'll help," growled Munro.
But when they came in sight of the engine their anger evaporated, and
they clung to each other, weak with mirth.
For the Monumental was "washed," and washed aplenty. This was natural,
for now the water was pouring into her box from _both_ directions, and
would continue so to pour until the hose coupled to Ward's engine had
burned through. The water was fairly spouting up from the box, not
merely overflowing. Her crew were still working, but raggedly and
dispiritedly. Bert Taylor, his trumpet battered beyond all recognition,
was fairly voiceless with rage. An interested and ribaldry facetious
crowd spared not its sarcasm.
"My crowd must be in the same fix!" gurgled Ward; "the back pressure
has 'washed' them, too." Then the full splendour of the situation burst
on him, and he fell again on Munro for support.
"Don't you see," he gasped. "They'll never know! The hose will burn
through. Unless we tell, they'll never know! We've got even, all right."
At this moment Duane rode up, foaming at the mouth, and desiring to
know what the assorted adjectives they were doing there. The crews
awoke to their isolation and general uselessness. Bert Taylor, still
simmering, descended from his perch. They followed the hose lines to
glowing coals!
"Here, this won't do," said Talbot; so they reported themselves before
the news of a tragedy had had time to spread.
The fire was now practically under control. It had swept a city block
pretty clean, but had been confined to that area. An hour later they
dragged their engine rather dispiritedly back to the house. Ordinarily
they would have been in high spirits. Fires were to these men a good
deal of a lark. The crews were very effective and well drilled, and the
saving of property was as well done as possible, but that was all
secondary to the game of it. But to-night they had been "washed," they
had lost the game, and the fact that they had put out the fire cut very
little figure. There was much bickering. It seemed that Bert Taylor, in
his enthusiasm, had, out of his own pocket, hired extra men who
appeared at the critical moment to relieve the tired men at the brakes;
and it was under their fresh impetus that the Monumental had so
triumphantly "sucked." Now Bert Taylor was freely blamed. The regular
men stoutly maintained that if they had been left alone this would
never have happened.
"These whiskey bummers never can last!" they said. Everybody trooped
upstairs to the main rooms, where refreshments were served. After some
consideration Keith decided to tell his story in explanation of how it
was that the Monumentals were washed. Instantly the company cheered up,
A clamour broke out. This was great! With Talbot Ward and Munro to
corroborate, no one could doubt the story. Taylor ran about jubilantly,
returning every few moments to pat Keith on the shoulder.
"Fine! fine!" he cried. "We've got those _Eurekas_! I can't wait for
morning!"