Slator always looked down on the patrol-wagon horses as plebeians, yet those sold yesterday brought twice his price. But arithmetic is one of the few things which the little police mount does not know. That is one worry which will be spared him in the future, at any rate. Braves Five Thousand Volts in Pit of Fire. Patrolman John A. Swift, of Springfield, Mass., veteran of the British army, hero of a dozen fires and accidents, proved his mettle when he dashed through a crowd of 150 persons, descended into a blazing manhole charged with five thousand volts, and saved the life of Benjamin W. Martin, cable repairman, who had been left to his fate. The blaze was the result of a short circuit of the big city power mains. Martin, deserted by his helpers, lay at the bottom of the manhole while the crowd watched. Patrolman Swift went through the choking smoke and took down a rope. His first attempt was unsuccessful, and he was hauled up unconscious. Peeling off his officer’s coat, he went down again, making Martin’s body fast to the rope. Both were drawn up unconscious. “It was easier for me to get him than to stand there and hear him croakin’ in that hot place,” said Swift. Luke’s Peck at Girl’s Hose Starts Uproar in Subway. Arthur Mullens, of New York City, works in paper and publishing houses, and all he finds he reads. If he had not read on a proof sheet yesterday that cruelty to animals was the unpardonable sin, he would not have enlarged the hole in the sack he carried, thereby freeing the eagle eyes and more eaglish beak of Luke, a rooster, and--but to start at the beginning. Mullens was called from his home, at 460 Pearl Street, by a friend to deliver Luke, a prize rooster and a great fighter in his day, to an acquaintance in 112th Street. Luke was put into a thick paper bag, the neck of which was securely tied. Mullens swung him by his side as he walked to the subway. On the train he read a speech that an assemblyman had delivered to a sleeping audience about an antivivisection bill. So he tenderly tore a tiny aperture in one side of the bag to give Luke the benefit of all the spare air there might be in a Broadway express. A young woman sitting next to Mullens snatched at her knee, and then screamed like a siren whistle. Mullens woke with a frightened start, but was too late. Luke had withdrawn his head for an instant at the girl’s yelp of terror. Then he swelled his fighter’s neck, and lo! there was no bag. Luke was free. The rooster started for authority, like true rebels, but the guard ducked. Luke next became bellicosely neutral; he did not care whose eyes he scratched. Men, women, children, oaths, prayers, and Mullens’ endearing calls got all mixed up.