The old captain had been a fireman since the days when the Sunday fights between the volunteer hose companies in Philadelphia had been the “only mode of public worship on the Sabbath” there. When those fights had culminated in riot, bloodshed, and the burning of churches, he had come to New York, and run with the “goose-necks” and defied the “leather-heads” until the paid brigade was formed and he took service with it. He had been living among men and politicians ever since; and to the natural cunning of the north of Ireland “sharp-nose” he had added a cynical experience that filled him to the full with the sort of wisdom that comes of such a life. Lieutenant Moore had been so simple to him that the “boy’s” attempts to supplant him, with the aid of the Fire Commissioner and the “Jiggers,” had amused him like a game. He looked at Moore, now, with a bitter contempt. “You youngsters in the department,” he said, “yuh’re great politicians. But what yuh don’t know about a fire’s enough to keep yuh from tryin’ to do tricks with one--er it ought to be.” Moore shook his head, dazedly. “Yuh’re goin’ to get yer fingers burnt now. An’ it serves yuh damn well right.” Moore turned away in silence and stumbled out to the engine room. Captain Keighley, having watched him go, proceeded to examine the shaft tunnel at his leisure. He found nothing but a ball of cotton waste, which he stuffed into his pocket. Then he leaned back calmly and waited for his crew to return. They were in the engine room, standing in the thickening smoke, waiting for nothing, with the quietness of disgusted despair. Sparks were beginning to fall down through the gratings. Little splashes of hot water sprinkled on them from above. They looked up at the reflection of the flames that were purring overhead, speaking in low voices to one another; and every now and then a man who had gone forward toward the stoke holes, or been down on his face crawling below the machinery, came back to them from a vain attempt to find a safer spot, and made the gesture of failure. A young German stoker was biting his lips and whining like a frightened dog. The last slow pulse of the engines stopped; the electric lights died out, and the glare of the fire reddened the shining metal of columns, cylinders and piston rods. No one moved. They watched, as if fascinated, the approach of a burning horror that seemed to be fighting its way down to them through the bars of the gratings, snarling.