A FULL-FLEDGED FIREMAN AT LAST.
After leaving Martin Pollox’s residence, Larry Barlow returned to the
School of Instructions in a very thoughtful mood.
“Something is wrong here, I am certain of it,” he told himself. “I
wouldn’t trust Martin Pollox. He will surely swindle Mary Vern out of
her fortune if he can possibly do so.”
Our hero wondered how it was that Martin Pollox had become the guardian
of the beautiful girl, but just then there was no chance of finding out
the particulars.
The truth would have surprised him greatly.
The days passed, and our hero kept steadily at his work—and hard work
it was, too, from morning to night, and often right in the middle of
the night.
All of the would-be firemen would be sound asleep, when of a sudden
the gong would ring out, and the captain in command would stand by the
engine and mark down in his book just how many seconds it took each
young fellow to jump up, scramble into his clothes and be ready to
leave the fire-house.
Larry, although he slept soundly, was readily awakened, so he had no
trouble in “making time,” as it is called, but one of the fellows, a
German-American named Brunwurst, had all he could do to get downstairs.
“I vos tream me such a peautiful tream!” he sighed. “I vos gettin’
married und der church pell vos ringing alretty, und I vosn’t dinking
of no fires——”
“Well, you dream of getting married some other time,” broke in the
captain. “Unless you do, you’ll be getting married without being a
fireman.”
“Ach, ton’t say dot, captain!” pleaded Brunwurst. “I vosn’t tream me
noddings more so long as I peen in der fire-house.”
Yet on the next night the German-American was almost as late as before.
But he “got square” on the night following, for he lay awake, and beat
all records by being on the machine before even the horses were in
place.
“Didn’t I vos told you I could do him?” he asked, proudly. “You chust
gif me der chance, some more alretty!”
There was so much to do and to learn that Larry got no chance to call
again upon Mary Vern. He kept steadily at work, until one morning he
was handed a document which stated that he had passed the required
examinations, and could now consider himself a full-fledged fireman.
George Harwell likewise passed, along with a number of others. Poor
Brunwurst was held back for another month’s trial.
“Hurrah! we are O. K. at last!” cried Larry, enthusiastically. “Now for
real duty!”
“That’s the talk!” returned George Harwell.
Our hero was assigned to a company located just below Central Park, in
a very fashionable portion of the town.
As is usual in such cases, the old members of the organization looked
rather dubiously at the newcomer. They were all veterans in the
service, and they knew just how much they could depend upon each other.
“He looks likely enough,” remarked one of the men, Dave Randall by
name. “But you can’t tell by a frog’s looks how far he can jump.”
“The first good blaze will show him up,” answered another of the
company.
That very afternoon the alarm sounded in that district, and the company
had to go out.
But the fire proved to be of small account—merely a Chinese laundry,
and Larry had little to do. Yet what he did was done in the best
possible manner.
“He’s well drilled, you can see that,” said Randall.
“But that don’t count for nerve,” said another. “Wait till he has
to crawl up a long ladder through thick smoke, or go into a flooded
cellar.”
On the day following, Larry was finishing his supper, when the alarm
sounded again. With his mouth full of food, he ran for his boots, coat
and hat, and was on the engine as quickly as anybody.
Down the block whirled the machine, through a crowd of carriages and
wagons, and swung into one of the broad thoroughfares leading to the
Park.
Soon they reached the scene of the fire, a tall, brown-stone front
dwelling.
The smoke was pouring from the basement and likewise from the top
floor. In the rear of the dwelling was a mass of flames from top to
bottom.
The hose was quickly stretched, and soon a half dozen streams of water
were being poured on the conflagration.
In the meantime a hook and ladder company arrived, and other engines
went around the block, to fight the flames from the rear.
“We’ll take the hose inside,” was the order which was presently given,
and into the building went Larry with several others.
Here the smoke was so thick that little could be seen, and they had to
open a window for air.
Larry was working away steadily, when he suddenly heard a fall to one
side of him and saw Randall go down, overcome by the smoke.
He himself was feeling dizzy, yet he braced up, and catching the old
fireman in his arms, staggered to the hallway and out of the building
with him.
“What’s up, Barlow?” was the cry.
“Overcome with smoke, sir.”
“It’s a good thing you brought him out. How do you feel yourself?”
“I’ll be all right in a minute, sir.”
“Don’t go in again unless you can stand it.”
Our hero remained outside several minutes, then went to work once more.
Several were now ordered to the second story, with axes and a line of
hose, and with the crowd went our hero, anxious to do his duty to the
utmost.
The smoke was not so thick here, for all doors had been kept closed,
and from one room the firemen passed to another, anxious to locate such
of the flames as were spreading under the floors.
Presently Larry found himself in a small bedroom separated from the
rest of the house by a narrow hallway.
There was not much smoke here, but the room was quite dark.
He was looking around, when of a sudden a small and horribly deformed
man confronted him, having leaped forth from a closet in the corner.
“Ha! So you are the Fire King?” he cried, clutching Larry by the arm.
“I say, you are the Fire King!” went on the man. “You have burnt up my
kingdom!” and he held Larry tighter than ever.
Our hero saw at once that he had a crazy person to deal with, and a
glance around the apartment showed that it had been designed especially
for the man—his relatives probably hating to put him in a public
institution.
“Come on with me, sir,” said Larry, as quietly as he could.
“No, no! This is my kingdom!” shrieked the insane one. “And you shall
not burn it up. Do you know who I am? I am the Czar of Russia,” and the
man glared wildly at Larry.
“Well, Czar, we’ll have to move on, or we’ll be burnt up. Come.”
Larry tried his best to persuade the crazy man to leave, but the fellow
would not budge.
“I’ll get help and have him removed,” he reasoned, and started to leave
the room.
But with a snarl like that of a wild animal, the crazy man hurled
himself upon our hero, and bore him to the floor.
“You shall not go!” he hissed. “If my kingdom is to be burnt up, you
shall go with it. Ha, ha! I will sing, as Nero fiddled at the burning
of Rome!” and he began to sing loudly.
“Let me up!” gasped Larry, for the man had him by the throat. And he
struggled strenuously to release himself. But like many other crazy
persons, the madman was as strong as a bull, and our hero could not
shake him off.
“The kingdom is melting!” went on the man, as he heard the crackling of
the flames. “Hurrah for the Fire King! He’ll melt, too, like butter in
the oven! Why don’t you sing?”
“Let go of—my—throat, and—I’ll sing!” Larry managed to gasp.
At once the madman released his throat.
“Now sing,” he ordered, sternly. “Sing, la, la, la—tra, la, la, la!”
His voice went up and down in a manner to make one’s blood curdle.
“Why don’t you fiddle while I sing?” asked Larry, an idea popping into
his head.
“Fiddle?”
“Yes, fiddle. It will be so much better.”
“But I have no instrument?” and the crazy man looked around anxiously.
“Yes, you have. There is a fiddle hanging up in yonder closet. Quick,
before the building goes down. The fiddle must be saved!”
“Yes, yes, the fiddle must be saved!” muttered the man, and leaping up
he ran toward the closet. As he entered it Larry came behind and closed
and bolted the door. Then, as fast as he was able, he ran into one of
the other rooms.
“A crazy man!” he cried. “Quick, we must rescue him!”
“A crazy man?” repeated two of the firemen, and they followed Larry at
once. When the closet was gained, they found that the man inside had
already kicked out one of the lower panels of the door.
He was furiously angry when released, and it took the combined strength
of all three firemen to hold him. But finally they grabbed him by the
arms and legs and hauled him down the stairs and into the street. An
ambulance was close by, and into this he was placed, and the surgeon
and two policemen took him off to the nearest institution for the
insane.
The fight with the madman had almost exhausted Larry, but he returned
to his duty, and remained at his post until the building was gutted
with water and the fire was out.
“You did well, Barlow,” said the captain of the company. “You have
learned your duty thoroughly.”
Randall was already at the house, lying on a bed upstairs. He took
Larry’s hand earnestly.
“You’re all right,” he whispered hoarsely, for the smoke had affected
his throat. “You’re one of us from this time on.”
And that was the way Larry Barlow became a full-fledged New York City
fire laddie.