Part 15 (2/2)

”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 s.h.i.+ngles.

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 a.s.sorted 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 b.u.mmers 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!”

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