One afternoon I stood talking with the Driver, while Antaeus was awaiting the deposit of more material by two tip-carts which were attached to his service, when she passed on the sidewalk, and I imagined she glanced at me with a certain degree of interest, as if she recalled having seen me before--or was it Antaeus who was the more worthy object of' her attention? Had I dared I should have smiled a little--merely a vague, sketchy, tentative smile--but, hardly thinking it prudent, I resisted the temptation and tried, as the photographers put it, to look natural; with the probable result of looking only cross. After having been her neighbor for more than two weeks it seemed as if I ought to have the right to speak, but proper consideration for _les convenances_ forbade. It was vacation season, I was alone in the house, and, there being no womankind to make the necessary advances, I knew not how long it might be ere I could be formally introduced. [Illustration: 0204] While I was meditating upon this state of affairs--peculiarly unfortunate for me--she walked on and disappeared around a corner. A few minutes later the fire-alarm bell sounded the number of a box near by, and presently our beautiful fire-engine, all glittering with gold and silver plate, the just pride of the town, dashed rather noisily by. At sight of this brilliant appearance Antaeus gave vent to a species of snort and started up as if to follow, but naturally his lumbering pace was no match for the swiftness of the other machine, and from the first he was left hopelessly in the rear. I went off to see where the fire was--it proved to be of small account--and forgot Antaeus entirely until that night, when he recalled himself to my mind by figuring in an odd and whimsical dream. The scene I have just described was reproduced in part, the Driver, however, being eliminated from it. I thought I was standing beside Antaeus when the young lady appeared, only to disappear. As she went I sighed regretfully, whereupon something happened which ought to have surprised me, and would have done so anywhere else than in a dream. As if in sympathy with me, Antaeus heaved a sigh also--a most ponderous one--and thus addressed me: “I can understand your feelings,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “You are longing for what seems the unattainable. Alas! so am I. We might mingle our tears,” he went on, beginning to exude moisture around the gauges; “or better still,” he added, as if struck by an idea, “perhaps we can be of assistance to each other.” “In what way?” I asked, dubiously. “I might help you to know _her_ if you would help me to an acquaintance with the charming Electra.” Intuitively I divined that Electra must be the steam fire-engine. Big, brawny Antaeus was in love! The ludicrousness of the notion did not strike me then as it did afterward. On the contrary, it seemed to be one of the most natural things imaginable.