But, speaking of cold, you ought to hear about the great fire company
that was organized at the Academy.
The town of Kingston was not large enough or rich enough to support a
full-fledged fire department with paid firemen and trained horses.
It had nothing but an old-fashioned engine, a hose-cart, and a
ladder-truck, all of which had to be drawn by two-footed steeds, the
volunteer firemen of the village.
The Lakerimmers had not been in Kingston many weeks before they heard
the fire-bell lift its voice. It was not more than twenty minutes
before the Kingston fire department appeared galloping along the rough
road in front of the campus at a fearsome speed of about six miles an
hour.
Several of the horses wore long white beards, and others of them were
so fat that they added more weight than power to the team.
Such of the academicians as had no classes at that hour followed these
champing chargers to the scene of the fire.
It turned out to be a woodshed, which was as black and useless as a
burnt biscuit by the time the fire department arrived.
But the Volunteers had the pleasure of dropping a hose down the well
of the owner of the late lamented woodshed, and pumping the well dry.
The Volunteers thus bravely extinguished three fence-posts that had
caught fire from the woodshed, and then turned for home, proud in the
consciousness of duty performed. They felt sure that they had saved
the village from a second Chicago fire.
Jumbo said that the department ought not to be called the Volunteers,
but the Crawfishes. B.J., who had a scientific turn of mind, said that
he had an idea for a great invention.
"The world revolves from west to east at the rate of a thousand miles
an hour," he said.
"I've heard so," broke in Jumbo, "but you can't believe everything you
see in print."
B.J. brushed him aside, and went on:
"Now, all you've got to do is to invent a scheme for raising your
fire-engine and your firemen up in the air a few feet, and holding
them still while the earth revolves under them. Then you turn a kind
of a wheel, or something, when the place you want to get to comes
around, and there you are in a jiffy. It would beat the Empire State
Express all hollow. Why, it would be faster even than an ice-boat!"
he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I guess I'll have to get that idea
patented."
"But say, B.J.," said Bobbles, in a puzzled manner, "suppose your fire
was in the other direction? You'd have to go clear around the world to
get to the place."
"I didn't think of that," said B.J., dejectedly.
And thus one of the greatest inventions of the age was left
uninvented.
* * * * *
But Tug had also been set to thinking by the snail-like Kingston
firemen.
"What this place really needs," he said, "is some firemen that can
run. They want more speed and less rheumatism. Now, if we fellows
could only join the department we'd show 'em a few things."
"Why can't we?" said Punk, always ready to carry out another's
suggestion.
"George Washington was a volunteer fireman," was History's
ever-present reminder from the books.
The scheme took like wild-fire with the Dozen, and after a conference
in which the twelve heads got as close together as twenty-four large
feet would permit, it was decided to ask permission of the Academy
Faculty and of the town trustees.
The Kingston Faculty was of the general opinion that it is
ordinarily--though by no means always--the best plan to allow restless
boys to carry out their own schemes. If the scheme is a bad one they
will be more likely to be convinced of it by putting it into practice
than by being told that it is bad, and forbidden to attempt it. So,
after long deliberation, they consented to permit half a dozen of the
larger Lakerim fellows to join the volunteer department.
Fires were not frequent, and most of the buildings of the village were
so small that little risk was to be feared.
The trustees of the village saw little harm in allowing the
academicians to drag their heavy trucks for them, and promised that
they would not permit the boys to rush into any dangerous places.
In a short while, then, the half-dozen were full-fledged firemen, with
red flannel shirts, rubber boots, and regulation hats. The Lakerimmers
were so proud of their new honor that they wanted to wear their
gorgeous uniforms in the class-rooms. But the heartless Faculty put
its foot down hard on this.
The very minute the six--Tug, Punk, Sleepy, B.J., and the Twins--were
safely installed as Volunteers, it seemed that the whole town had
suddenly become fire-proof.
The boys could neither study their lessons nor recite them with more
than half a mind, for they had always one ear raised for the sound of
the delightful fire-bell. They always hoped that when the fire would
come it would be in the midst of a recitation; and Sleepy constantly
failed to prepare himself at all, in the hope that at the critical
moment he would be rescued from flunking by a call to higher
duties. But fate was ironical, and after two or three weeks of this
nerve-wearing existence the Volunteers began to lose hope.
One Saturday afternoon, when the roads were frozen into ruts as hard
and sharp as iron, and when the Dozen had just started forth to take a
number of pretty girls to see a promising hockey game, the villainous
old fire-bell began to call for help.
The half-dozen regretted for a moment that they had ever volunteered
to be Volunteers; but they would not shirk their duty, and instantly
dashed toward the shed where the fire department was stored. They
were there long before any of the older Volunteers, and had a long,
impatient wait. Then there were all manner of delays; breakages had to
be repaired and axles greased before a start could be properly made.
But at last they were off, tearing down the rough roads at a speed
that made the older firemen plead for mercy.
The alarm had come from a man who had been painting a church steeple,
and had seen a cloud of smoke in the direction of the "Mitchell
place," a large farm-house some little distance out of the village
limits.
There was a fine exhilaration about the run until they reached the
edge of the town, and began to drag the bouncing, jouncing cart over
the miserable country road. Still they tugged on, going slower and
slower, and the older Volunteers letting go of the rope and falling by
the wayside like the wounded at the hill of San Juan.
Finally even the half-dozen had to slacken speed, too, and walk, for
fear of losing the whole fire department--the chief had already given
out in exhaustion, and insisted upon climbing on one of the trucks
and riding the rest of the way. But at length, somehow or other, the
Kingston Volunteers reached the farm-house at a slow walk, their
tongues almost hanging out of their mouths, and their breath coming in
gasps.
Strange to say, there were no signs of excitement at the Mitchell
place, though a great cloud of black smoke poured from a huge hollow
sycamore-tree that had been cut off about ten feet from the ground,
and was used as a primitive smoke-house.
The Volunteers looked at this tree, and then at one another, without a
word. Then Mr. Mitchell came slowly toward his gate, and asked why he
had been honored with such a visit.
The only one that had breath enough to say a word was the fire chief,
who had ridden the latter part of the way. He explained the alarm, and
asked the cause of the smoke.