It did not take him long to learn. One of his political friends in the upper circle explained that “the Boss” had objected to a fratricidal war that threatened to disrupt the whole fire department, to sacrifice public faith in the administration for no political ends, and to weaken the “organization” by dividing it against itself. The Fire Commissioner had compromised by suspending Borden instead of “breaking” him. Keighley listened--and shook his head. “That don’t let _me_ out,” he said. “It may keep ’em from comin’ after me on Broadway with a club, but it’ll never keep ’em from stickin’ me in the back some night around a dark corner.” He hung up the receiver and scratched the back of his neck doubtfully. It was his day off duty, but he was reluctant to take it--and leave the lieutenant in charge. “Moore,” he summoned him, “get that report done, will yuh? I’ll see to cleanin’ the boat.” “It’s all right,” Moore replied. “I can do both--if you want to get away.” Keighley looked out the window at the humid haze of heat that hung over the water. “I guess I’ll be as cool here as anywhere,” he said. “Go ahead with the report.” * * * * * That Sunday was to be memorable in the records of the Weather Bureau as the hottest July day in forty years; and it was to be memorable in the records of the fire department for the most dangerous fire that had attacked the water front since the department had been formed. But the fire did not break out till sundown; and fate, while she was setting a terrific stage for Keighley’s next appearance, allowed him one of those entre-acts that make the fireman’s life such a thing of heart-breaking spurts of action and nerve-wracking blanks of peace. Having given his orders for the day, he withdrew, upstairs, to a balcony off his bunkroom, where he sat all morning in the shade, watching the tugs and ferries, steamboats, floats and scows that bustled and wallowed and staggered past, squealing in a shrill impatience when they whistled, and puffing short of breath when they reversed. The water under their bows broke and fell back sluggishly. The swells in their wakes reeled away with an oily roll. The air was heavy with the drifting belch of their funnels. It could not be said that Keighley really thought of anything while he sat there. It was one of the characteristics of his mind that it worked best under the conditions of bewildering excitement that make clear thought impossible to most men. He did not even think about the “Jiggers;” he merely snoozed, with one eye on that matter, like a watchdog, until the noonday sun drove him from his balcony. Then he went sleepily to a neighboring restaurant for his dinner, having already telephoned that he would not be home.