Miss Eleanor tried to call out, but though her lips moved, she could not speak above a whisper. She shut the door and leaned against it, and the look in her eyes frightened the children out of what little control they had.
“Call,” she said hoarsely, “call ‘Fire!’ out of the window. Quick! Call, all of you!”
But they stumbled about, crying and gasping, some of them struggling to get by her out of the door. She was trembling violently, but she pushed them away and held the door-knob as tightly as she could.
Only Olga ran to the open window, and sent a piercing little shriek out into the quiet street:
“Fire! Fire! Come along! Fire!”
For a moment there was no answer, and then a frightened woman ran out of her house and waved her hand.
“Come out! Come out, you!” she called.
“Our stairs is burnt all up! We can’t!” screamed Olga.
The woman ran quickly down the empty street, calling for help as she ran, and the children surged about the door, a crowd of frightened little animals, trying to drag Miss Eleanor away from it.
“Wait,” she begged them, “wait! You can’t go that way—they’ll bring ladders! Oh,pleasewait!”
Her knees shook beneath her, the room swam before her eyes. The smell of the smoke, stronger and stronger, sickened her. With a thrill of terror, she saw big Hans drag a child away from the window, and deliberately pushing her down, prepare to climb out over her, almost stepping on her little body.
Suddenly she caught sight of the Imp. He was pushing his way through the crowd valiantly, but not toward her.
“Come here, Perry!” she said weakly. But he paid no attention. He had been dazed for a moment, and like all the other children, her terror had terrified him quite as much as the fire. Now as he caught her eye, and saw the helpless fear in her face as she watched Hans, something sent him away from her to a farther corner, and as the smoke began to come up between the boards of the floor, and the same deadly stillness reigned outside, whilethe confusion grew greater in the hot, crowded room, a new sound cut through the roar and the crackle.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm, brrrm, brrrm!
The children turned. Big Hans, with one leg out of the window, looked back. There was a little rush, half checked, for the sides of the room, and Olga instinctively looked about for her small charges.
But they wavered undecidedly, and as the sound of steps outside and the clattering of horses’ feet reached them, a new rush for the door began, and Miss Eleanor’s hand slipped from the knob, and she half fell beside it.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm—umdum!
That familiar long roll had never been disobeyed; the habit of sudden, delighted response was strong; and with a quick recollection that he was to be head boy, big Hans slipped from the window-sill and jumped to the head of a straggling line. Olga was behind him in a moment, and Pierre, proud of his position as rear-guard and time-keeper for the little boys, pushed them, crying and coughing, into place.
Miss Eleanor must have been half unconscious for a moment. When she struggled to her feet, no scrambling crowd, but an orderly, tramping line pushed by her, and above the growing tumult outside, above the sickening roar of the fire below,came the quick, regular beat of the faithful drum.
Brrrm!
Brrrm!
Brrrm, brrrm, brrrm!
The children marched as if hypnotized. The long line just filled the sides of the room, and they were squeezed in so tightly that they forced each other on unconsciously. The Imp in his excitement beat faster than usual, and his bright red cheeks, his straight little figure, as he walked his inside square, his quick, nervous strokes, were an inspiration to the most scared laggard. Big Hans, elated at his position—his for the first time—never took his eyes off the black sticks, and worked his mouth excitedly, keeping time to the beats, the Imp frowning at his slightest misstep.
Miss Eleanor, the door hot against her back, forced her trembling lips into a smile, and cheered them on as they tramped round and round. Was nothing being done? Would no one come?
Suddenly there was a thundering, a clanging, and a quick, sharp ringing gong came closer with every stroke; the sound of many running feet, too, and loud, hoarse orders. The line wavered, seemed to stop. She summoned all her strength, and called out aloud for the first time:
“Don’t stop, children! Keep right on! Stand straight, Hans, and show them how well you can lead!”
Hans tossed his head, glared at a boy across the room who had broken through, and forged ahead. There was a succession of quick blows onthe sides of the room, a rush, and in another moment three helmeted heads looked through three windows. At the same moment a sharp hissing sound interrupted the roaring below, and though the door was brown behind her now, and a tiny red point was glowing brighter in the wall near by, Miss Eleanor’s strength returned at the sight of the firemen, and she stood by the side of the Imp and encouraged the children.
“Don’t stop, Hans! Remember, little ones first! Olga’s children first!”
And with a grunt of assent Hans marched on, the line following, closing up mechanically over the gaps the men made, who snatched out the children as they passed by the windows, and handed them rapidly down the long ladders. In vain the firemen tried to get the boys. They wriggled obstinately out of their grasp, as they went round, till every girl was lifted out, Olga standing by the window till the last of her charges was safe.
The door fell in with a bang, and in spite of the hose below, the smoke rolled up from between the cracks in the floor, thicker and thicker. As the plaster dropped from the walls in great blocks, Miss Eleanor dragged the line into the center of the room, and motioned one of the men to take the Imp as he passed by. For so perfect was the order that the men never once needed to step into the room, only leaning over the sills to lift out the children. The Imp felt a strong grasp on his arm, and pulled away; the man insisted.
“Hurry now, hurry, let go!” he commanded gruffly. The despair in the Imp’s eyes as hedrummed hard with his other hand grew to rage, and he brought down his free stick with a whack on the man’s knuckles. With a sharp exclamation the man let go, and the Imp pressed on, his cheeks flaming, his eyes glowing. His head was high in the air, he was panting with excitement. The line was small now; another round and there would be but a handful. The floor near the door began to sag, and the men took two at a time of the bigger boys, and left them to scramble down by themselves. With every new child a shout went up from below. As Hans slipped out by himself, and two men lifted Miss Eleanor out of one window, a third meanwhile carrying the Imp, kicking in his excitement, and actually beating the drum as it dangled before him, while a fourth man took a last look, and crying “O. K.! All out!” ran down his ladder alone, the big crowd literally shouted with thankfulness and excitement.
As for the Imp, he felt tired and shaky, now that somebody had taken away his drum, and all the women were trying to kiss him; and he watched the blackened walls crash in without a word. His knees felt hollow and queer, and there was nobody to take him in her lap like the other children, for Miss Eleanor had quietly fainted in the firemen’s arms, and they were sprinkling her with water from the little pools where the big hose had leaked.
They took them to the station in a carriage, and the Imp sat in Miss Eleanor’s lap in a drawing-room car, and she cuddled him silently all the way home. Her father, dreading lest she should be hurt somehow after all in the crowded streets,passed them in an express going in the other direction, to find out that they were safe, and that the strike was off. The recent danger had sobered the men, and their thankfulness at their children’s safety had softened them, so that their ring-leaders’ taunts had no effect on their determination to go back to work quietly the next day.
It was at her father’s request that they refrained from any more costly gift to Miss Eleanor than a big photographic group of the children, framed in plush, “as an expression of their deep gratitude for her presence of mind in keeping the children in the room away from the deadly flames beneath.” But to the Imp the Mill Town drum corps and military band formally presented “to master Perry S. Stafford the drum and sticks that he used on the occasion when his bravery and coolness made them proud to subscribe themselves his true friends and hearty well-wishers.”
By James B. Connolly
The Interscholastic Athletic Association was holding its annual track meeting. In the athletic building a hundred lads or more were dressing or rubbing in preparation for the different events. The clerk of the course, sticking his head within the door, shouted, “Last call for the hundred yards final! Last call! Hurry now, fellows!”
The graduate coach of Webster High School cutshort his instructions to a medium-sized, heedful, earnest-looking lad. “There now, I’ll have to go and see how Prouty runs in the hundred. But bear in mind, Haskins, what you’re to do when your race comes. Keswick is out to run the field off its feet. And if they follow him he’ll do it. You are to get the inside track—on the first run get the pole, mind, if you have to do forty yards in record time to do it. That will start a break in Keswick’s plans. Then you make the pace—with an eye all the way to Stevenson. Perhaps you’ll carry Sullivan off his feet, too, at the same time. That’s not likely, though. Anyway, carry Stevenson along—clear round to the home-stretch, and make it so hot for Keswick on the way that he’ll be done up at that point. Land Stevenson in the straight in good shape and your work will be done. Drop out then if you want to, and I guess you’ll want to drop. You’ve an hour yet. When Stevenson comes from the rubbing board, jolly him along a bit. He’s apt to get—nervous—you know. Got it all?”
“I think so.” Haskins lay back on his mat for rest and meditation.
Pretty soon Stevenson, a tall, rangy lad, came over from the other side of the room. He halted above Haskins, and looked about, as if seeking a place to lie.
Haskins caught his glance. “They’re all in use, I guess, Stevie. Take this place. You’ll want all the rest you can get for your race.”
“You’re not done? You’ve got to run, too.”
“O shucks—me—second string—I’m only to make pace for you. Mr. Ludwig just told me.”
“Well, all right—thanks. Think you can do it right?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be hard getting the pole from Keswick. He’s in for the same game—making way for Sullivan. We’ll have a great time of it, Keswick and I. I wonder which will flop first? But I’ll make for that pole—though Keswick’s a hound for a quick start—and try to hold on for the straight again. That’ll do, won’t it? If I kill off Keswick so he won’t be of any use, you can give all your attention to Sullivan? He’s a good man, Sullivan, but you can give him yards and a licking any day in the week, Stevie.”
“Think so, Dickie?”
“Think? I know it. He hasn’t your stride, your speed, or your head, and you’re in great shape to-day, Mr. Ludwig says. Beat him? You’ll flag him. Oh, I wish I had your speed! I’d make Sullivan and Keswick look like busted automobiles. I know just how I’d do it, too. But what’s the use? I haven’t the speed. I’m only second string and lucky to be that, but I’ll go through three hundred yards of that quarter to-day for every little ounce in me, and I don’t care if they carry me off afterward.”
The little lad was cuddled up on the floor, back to a locker, knees up to his chin, bath-robe tucked in round him. His regard was all for his school champion. In common with most of the boys of the school, he had the deepest admiration for Stevenson’s running power. Never before had such a quarter-miler come out of Webster—no, nor out of the state! All he needed was a littlemore growth and experience and a little more—well, confidence in himself, and he would beat the world! So his schoolmates phrased it.
Stevenson placidly accepted Haskin’s devotion. He had been used to that sort of thing for some time now, and it did not fluster him. He did not even acknowledge the care with which his friend tucked in the wandering folds of his blanket, saying, “It’s drafty here, Stevie, and you want to keep your legs covered or you’ll stiffen up. Mustn’t stiffen up, you know.”
They waited for their time to come—Stevenson on the mat, Haskins snuggled up against the locker. The young athletes in the room kept going and coming. They would go out fresh and strong, some nervous, some confident, a few absolutely in fear—ready to draw back only that shame forced them on. They came back tired, winded, used up, some of them jubilant, some depressed, a few crying. With each returning batch some new details of the progress of things were shouted round the room.
At last the coach, Ludwig, came back. “Your quarter’s coming soon, fellows. Looks like Scotia and Webster again. Sullivan’s just run the two-twenty; that’ll take the edge off him for the quarter-mile, Stevenson. How do you feel? And you, Dickie? It’ll be up to you soon. Feel fit for the fastest three hundred you ever ran in your life? Of course you do.”
“I wish Dickie had the other’s speed,” Ludwig whispered to MacArthur, high jumper and team captain.
“H-m-m, Mr. Ludwig—Dickie’s heart and Stevenson’s legs! Rather a lot for one package, wouldn’t it be?”
The clerk of the course here made an entrance. “Quarter-mile comes last of the track events. Sullivan of Scotia wants to get rested from the two-twenty, and judges agreed. All out for the long jump and hammer.”
Stevenson made a pettish face. “I suppose Sullivan and the Scotians can have things cooked to their order and the rest of us take what we can get. I think you ought to protest, Mr. Ludwig.”
Ludwig shook his head. “I can’t change the order of events, Stevenson. Besides, it’s only fair to give a man a rest after he’s been through a hard two-twenty. Take it easy, like Dickie, there. Go to sleep if you can. Dickie, can’t you find a mat to lie on? You have an hour to wait yet, and I don’t like to have you hugging the floor like that.”
“Oh, this is nice. Here’s my suit case for a pillow. I could go to sleep here.”
All things come to an end. The busy clerk of the course rushed in for the last time. “Quarter-mile now! Only one call—all out!”
Stevenson and Dickie promptly rose—Stevenson anxious in manner, fussy; Dickie serious, calm. Together they walked across the field, MacArthur and Ludwig in attendance. Every event had been finished except the pole-vault, always a lengthy affair. The audience was in a fine state of expectancy.
Just before reaching the track, Ludwig drew the boys’ heads together. “Now, Stevenson, this meetdepends on you. We win it if you capture the five points for first place in the quarter. We lose it if you don’t. Dickie here is to be sacrificed for you. Keep your eye on Dickie; he’ll swing out and tell you when.
“And you, Dickie,” Ludwig went on, “make a way for Stevenson and balk Keswick. See that you have the pole on the last turn. Now go along. O Dickie, a moment!”
Ludwig dropped his arm round the boy’s neck. “This is in confidence, Dickie. MacArthur and I are afraid that Stevenson isn’t any too fond of his job to-day—that he doesn’t quite fancy a tilt with Sullivan. What do you think?”
“Stevenson afraid? Oh, no, Mr. Ludwig! Stevie’s nervous—that’s natural. Why, I’m nervous, for all you crack up my coolness. I’m nervous as I can be, but I try not to show it, and Stevie lets his out. Stevie will win. Look at him up on his toes now! Style! He’s won three-quarters of the crowd already, just the gait of him. Don’t worry, Mr. Ludwig, Webster’ll win this quarter-mile.”
“Well, all right, Dickie. I hope you’re right. Hope he’s only nervous. Look out for him, anyway. But don’t try to do it too fast—don’t kill yourself. If you can, you might just as well finish; you don’t know, somebody might drop and you pick up a point. Not much of a chance for you, but—”
“But Sullivan and Stevie and the rest of themmightdrop—used up! Ha, 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 curvein 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 hesignaled, 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 thewillows 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 ofthe 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 ofthis, 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.
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 andmills; 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 hadbeen 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 aheadwas 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 endof 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 onthe 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.
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 wasThe Wing.
But a short distance from the mainlandThe Wingrested, 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’rebeck’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.”
“I reckon Miss May’s coming about school again. I’m going to show her that last copy of yours. I wish I could spare you to get an education like my mother gave me, but I can’t. Still, it ain’t every child with eyes can read raised point.”
Almira was untying the boat. “I wouldn’t let you spare me. You’d catch afire or you’d fall into the river. We’d rather stay here, wouldn’t we?” She was talking to Botsey now. “No, you can’t go with me.” Jumping nimbly into the skiff, she began to cross the narrow strip of water.
“That baby row us?” she heard the lace lady ask. So she ran the boat in skilfully.
Miss May stepped lightly in; the lace lady hesitated, then followed with a laugh. Almira could hardly work the oars for looking at her soft brown eyes and the little brown curl that fluttered on her cheek.
A few strokes brought the skiff to the boat. “Good morning, Mrs. Wing!” called Miss May. “Here’s somebody you want to meet. Guess!”
“Is it Mrs. Lenox, who sends the raised point books in the travelling library?”
“You’re a witch!” cried the girl.
The woman smiled brightly. Her blue eyes, with the white, sightless pupils, turned toward the stranger. “I’m glad to see you at last. We heard you were coming. Almira, have you brought seats for the ladies?”
The child, keeping her eyes on the beautifulstranger, brought forward two soap-boxes upholstered in gay calico. If Botsey only had something like that for her neck! And she caught up the bottle in its crude skirt and blue crocheted shawl with an emphatic hug.
“Is that your doll?” asked Mrs. Lenox·
“No, ma’am. It’s Botsey.”
“It’s the bottle I’ve fixed up for her. I don’t know how she’d pass the time if it wasn’t for Botsey. You see, being so helpless, I try to make her enjoy staying with me. You know how helpless I am without her, Miss May.”
“I know how helpful you are and what a good housekeeper,” said Miss May, looking about at the tidy interior.
Then she told her errand. Almira was invited to the schoolhouse reception party the next Wednesday. Wally Jim had offered to fish nearThe Wing, if Mr. Wing should have to be filling orders in town.
Almira, her eyes still fixed on the beautiful lady’s face, said, “I went once. Miss May had an Easter just after we first come here. May I bring Botsey?”
But Miss May said no. A new library was due, and if it reached the village in time Almira would have books to bring her mother.
Mrs. Wing smiled softly. “How good of you! The last one was about little Nell. Why is it our books are so much better than books for people that can see? Jack thinks so, and so does Almira. How I bless you, ma’am!”
Mrs. Lenox could say nothing. May had toldher the story of the young mother, attacked by the scarlet fever that left her sightless ten years before.
“I’ll let her come on Wednesday,” pursued Mrs. Wing, “but I’ll never budge from this chair till she gits back. It’s not as if I’d never seen how dangerous things are.”
With the school party this tale has naught to do. The child reached home betimes, carrying a package of books and a pasteboard box that seemed almost as long as herself. She was trembling with excitement.
“The library’s come, ma! And here’s two books and some cake and candy and—O ma, just guess what’s in the box?”
The mother felt, smiled, and shook her head.
“A little girl—a live little girl-baby doll!” And she lifted it from its shell. “And Miss May—she’s sometimes so funny!—she said at first she believed she’d rather I wouldn’t have her, but the lady said she wanted me to.”
The mother held out her arms for the doll, almost as excited as the child.
Almira expounded, “Its dress is blue, with buttons and buttonholes, and her hair’s real; put your hand here. It’s brown, and these teenty brown curls slant on her cheeks, and her eyes are brown, and she can shut them and go to sleep just like you and me.”
“Well, I never!” said the mother, feeling. “And what is this paper pinned on her dress?”
“It’s a letter,” answered Almira, sagely. “It begins in print and ends in writing, but I can’tmake it all out. It says, ‘Patent, unbreakable, celluloid. Made in France.’ I’ll ask daddy the rest when he comes. And feel the petticoat, ma! Lace!”
“And tucks,” added the mother. “And see how fine the stuff is. Are these slippers?”
“With heels, real heels!” gurgled Almira. “And stockin’s! And in the box here’s a hat and feather and a white nightgown!” Almira’s emotion got the better of her, and she flung herself into her mother’s arms and rocked in ecstasy.
Then came a familiar bark, and Sweepins preceded the husband and fell to sniffing the doll immediately. “It’s mine, Sweepins,” cried the child. “Look, daddy!”
But the fisherman was too hungry to notice dolls, so the trio prepared the supper of frizzled bacon, corn, hoe-cakes and weak coffee. Afterward was bedtime, and the little feather bed was pulled from the big one to the floor, and made up with clean quilts for the child. But first she undressed the doll, carefully plaiting its hair in two nice plaits, putting the front in curl-papers, and robing it in the night-dress fine enough for day. Mrs. Lenox had cautioned her to teach her child tidy ways like its grandmother’s. Poor Botsey, hitherto her constant bedfellow, stood motionless outside the door.
When morning came, and she was helping, her mother asked, “What are you going to name her?”
“It ought to be something pretty. I thought of Queeny.”
“Queeny’ll be fine,” agreed Mrs. Wing. “But where’s the paper? Maybe she’s already named.”
Outside “daddy” was mending a net when Almira brought him the paper. He read:
“‘Patent, unbreakable, celluloid. Made in France.’ That’s in print, and here in writing is, ‘This travelling doll goes with Travelling Library Number Ten to any child selected by persons responsible for the distribution of the books. It is the reward for good behavior or special merit in the place of a medal, and is to belong to the child until the library is ready to go on, when the dolly in neat condition and clean, her hair combed, her clothing washed and ironed, must be put back in her box and packed for the next child on the circuit.’”
Almira snatched at the paper and ran into the boat. She laid Queeny on her mother’s lap and crept out to the little deck. Botsey, again on guard, stood by the door. Almira seized her fiercely, tore off the blue shawl, dragged at the soiled skirt. An old greasy bottle! How could it ever be taken back as her very own child when Queeny had to go?
“Almira,” called the mother, scenting tragedy, “don’t you want me to play grandmother with you and Queeny?”
“What’s the use? She’s like your books. She ain’t mine, and I never had a real child before. The paper says she must travel with the books.”
But the placid cheeriness of the blind woman smoothed matters: “But she’s yours now, and sometimes the books stay for weeks and weeks.”
Here was some comfort. One week was a long time; a month so long that Almira could hardlyremember it. And Queeny was beautiful. Why not love her and be happy?
And she was, for weeks and weeks that went by like a dream. She quite forgot what had to happen until one day Wally Jim stopped with a note from Miss May—in printing writing that Almira could read. It said: