Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line of men forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce glow, but daring it, and prepared to face it at even closer range.
You are to witness now an exhibition of that heroism which is commoner with us than we think, that spirit of do and dare which mocks at danger and even welcomes pain. It is a far finer sentiment than the cold-hearted calculation which looks ahead, and figures out first whether it is worth while or not.
The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste they fix the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and scamper back.
"Yo hee! Yo hee!"
The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You can almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it.
"Yo hee! Yo hee!"
With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of lattice-work is dragged away.
Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and torn to rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these kindlings saved when the whole house is burning? Is this what you call heroism? Yet the charge at Balaklava was not more futile.
It had even less of commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind to back it and inspire it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout policy. Its quality is the same, in two-ounce samples or in car-load lots.
The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists and stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it were, a golden grille, through which the world may look unhindered in upon the holy place of home, heretofore conventually private.
There stands the family altar, pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous splendor of the destroying fire, the tea-kettle upon it proudly flaunting its steamy plume. What? Is a common cooking-stove an altar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. Examine an ancient altar and you will see its sacrificial stone scored and guttered to catch the dripping from the roasting meat. Who is the priestess, after an order older than Melchisedec's, but she that ministers to us that most comfortable sacrament, wherein we are made partakers not alone of the outward and visible food which we do carnally press with our teeth, but also of that inward and spiritual sustenance, the patient and enduring love of wife and mother, without which there can be no such thing as home? All other sacraments wherein men break the bread of amity together are but copies of this pattern, the Blessed Sacrament of the Household Altar, the first and primal one of all, the one that shall perdure, please God! throughout all ages of ages.
The flames die down. The timbers sink together with a softer fall. The air grows chill. We fetch a sigh. We cannot bear to look at that mute figure of the priestess seated on the sordid heap of broken furniture, her sleeping baby pressed against her breast, her gaze fixed - but seeing naught - upon her ruined temple. We do not like to think upon such things. We do not like to think at all. Is there nothing more to laugh at?
The firemen, having all borrowed the makings of a cigarette from each other, put on their hats and coats, left on the hook-and-ladder truck in the custody of a trusted member. The apparatus trundles off, the bells dolorously tolling as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam.
Who is this weeping man approaches, supported by two friends, that comfort him with: "All right, Tom. You done noble," uttered in pacifying if not convincing tones? Heart-brokenly he cries: "I dull le ver' bes' I knowed, now di' n't I? Charley? Billy, I dub bes'
I knowed how. An' nen he says to me - Oo-hoo-hoo-oooo-oo! He says to me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Oo-oooo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Smf!
Lemme gi' amma ham hankshiff. Leg go my arm. Waw gi' amma hankshifp.
Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Fmf! I ash you as may wurl - I ash you as may - man of world, is that - is that proper way address me?
Me! Know who I am? I'm Tom Ball. 'S who I am. I kill lick em man ill Logan Coun'y. Ai' thasso? Hay? 'S aw ri. Mfi choose stay up there, aw thas sec - aw thas second floor and rescue fel-cizzen's propprop'ty from devouring em - from devouring emlement, thas my bizless. Ai' tham my bizless, Charley? Ai' tham my bizless, Billy? W'y, sure. Charley, you're goof feller. You too, Billy.
You're goof feller, too. Say. Wur-wur if Miller's is open yet?
'Spose it is? Charley; I dub bes' I knowed how, di'n't I, now?
Affor that Chief come up thas stairway and say me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Aw say! 'Come ou' that - 'Called me fool, too!
Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!"
"Hello, Dan! Hurt yourself any? (That's Dan O'Brien. Fell off the roof.) Well, sir, I thought sure you'd broken your neck. You don't know your luck. And let me tell you one thing, my bold bucko:
You'll do that just once too often. Now you mark."The day before the Weekly Examiner goes to press, Mr. Swope hands the editor a composition entitled: "A Card of Thanks," signed by John K. and Amelia M. Swope, and addressed to the firemen and all who showed by their many acts of kindness, and so forth and so on.
"Kind of help to fill up the paper," says Mr. Swope, covering his retreat.
"Sure," replies the editor. When Mr. Swope is good and gone, he says: "Dog my riggin's if I didn't forget all about writing up that fire. Been so busy here lately. Good thing he come in. Hay, Andy!""Watch want?" from the composing-room.
"Got room for about two sticks more?"
"Yes, guess so. If it don't run over that."A brief silence. Then:
"Hay, Andy?"
"What ?"
"Is it 'had have,' or 'had of ?"
"What's the connection?"
"Why-ah. 'If the gallant fire-laddies, under the able direction of Chief Charley Lomax, had of had a sufficiency of water with which to cope with the devouring element - 'etc.""'Had have,' I guess. I don't know."
"Guess you're right. Run it that way anyhow."
