dozen heads have suddenly sprouted
from as many doorways. Your heart beats with suspense when Gibb
comes to the town-hall corner. Hurrah! He's steering for the fire-house.
You're overhauling him rapidly, and by a big sprint you beat out Clatt
Sanderson, and grab one handle of the fire-bell ropes. Gibb grabs the
other, and then you let her have it for all there is in you.
Did I say anything about Homeburg being asleep? Forget it. Before
you've hit the bell a dozen taps you can't hear it for the tramp of feet.
Every store in town is belching forth proprietors and clerks. They are
coming bareheaded and coatless; some of them are collarless. Chief
Dobbs, who shoes horses in his less glorious moments and keeps his
helmet hanging on the forge-cover, dashes into the engine-room, grabs
his trumpet, and begins firing orders, not singly, but in broadsides.
There's nobody there to order yet, but he's just getting his hand in, and
ten seconds later, when the first member of the company arrives, he is
saluted with nineteen stentorian commands in one blast. Half a minute
later the engine-house is clogged with fire-fighters, and the air is a
maelstrom of orders, counter orders, suggestions, objections, and
hoarse yells. Then a roar of wheels sounds outside, and you drop the
bell-rope handle and go out to see the finest sight of all.
I suppose those old Romans thought the chariot-races were pretty nifty,
but if an old Roman should reassemble himself and watch the dray-race
to a Homeburg fire, he'd wonder how he ever managed to sit through a
silly little dash around an arena. From the south comes a cloud of dust
and a terrific racket. At an equal distance from the east comes another
cloud of dust and an even more terrible uproar, Clay Billings's dray
having more loose spokes than Bill Dorgan's. The clouds approach with
tremendous speed. Bill is a little ahead. He is lashing his horses with
the ends of the reins, while from the bounding dray small articles of no
value, such as butter-firkins and cases of eggs, are emerging and
following on the road behind.
But Clay isn't beaten--not by a thousand miles. He's going to make it a
dead heat or better--no, Bill hit the crossing first. By George! That Clay
boy is a wonder. He deliberately pulled in and shot across behind Bill,
cutting off a good fifty feet. His team stops, sliding on their haunches,
and ten seconds later is being hitched to the hose-cart, while Clay is on
the seat clanging the foot-bell triumphantly. It's the fiftieth race, or
thereabouts, between the two, and the score is about even. The winner
gets two dollars for the use of his team. I've seen horse-races for a
thousand-dollar purse which weren't half as exciting.
In the meanwhile more messengers have arrived from the fire. It is in
the Mahlon Brown barn, and late advices indicate terrible progress. As
fast as forty-nine rival fingers can do it, the tugs are fastened, and the
cart is off down the street with a long trail of citizens after it.
Bill's team, badly blown, is hitched to the hook-and-ladder truck, and
willing hands push it out through the door. There is always more or less
of a feud between the hook-and-ladder boys and the hose-cart boys,
because the former get the second team and rarely arrive at the fire in
time to hoist the beautiful blue ladders before the hose-cart gang puts
the conflagration out. Indeed, the feeling has gotten so strong at times
that the hook-and-ladder gang has threatened to double the prize-money
by private subscription and get their rig out first, but patriotism has thus
far prevented this.
You have rung the bell until you are tired, by this time, and, besides,
the human flood has rushed on, leaving no one to whom you can
explain just how you thought you smelled fire and beat the world to the
engine-house. So you set out for the fire yourself and jog over the
half-mile in pretty fair time, considering the heat. It is an impressive
sight--not the fire itself, but the event. Two thousand, two hundred and
nine people are there--that being the population of Homeburg minus the
sick and wandering.
In the midst of the seething mass are the hose-cart and the ladder-truck.
Around them dozens of red helmets are bobbing, while the quivering
air is cut and slashed and mangled with a very hurricane of orders:
"Bring up that hose--" "Whoa, keep that horse still--" "Bring her round
this way--" "Bring her round this way--" "Hey, you chumps, the fire's
this side--" "Back up that wagon--" "Come ahead with the wagon--"
"Get out of here till we get a ladder up--" "Axes here--" "Turn on

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