“I shall have to neglect my duty this evening,” he explained; “there are some questions of foreign exchange. But perhaps you will take my place.” Epes went silently out to the hall, where two leather buckets, painted with the name Active Fire Club, were hanging. He secured them, and a wool scarf, and went unexcitedly in search of the fire. It was, as he had thought, in the vicinity of Marlboro Street, the Baptist Church. The Fire Engine Exchange, he saw, to which generally the men of the Calef family belonged, had secured the place of honor, directly at the conflagration. Its reservoir was connected by hose to another engine, and that latter to a third, which drew from the source of their water. A pandemonium rose about Epes--the hoarse, jeering shouts of the competing companies, authoritative voices magnified by trumpets, the clatter of the hand pump, and the dull roar of the unconquerable flames. A curtain of black smoke, ruddy at its base and, above, poured with live cinders, rolled up across the immaculate green sky and frosty stars. The members of the Active Fire Club had formed their line for the rapid orderly passing of buckets, and Epes had taken his place at the end, when he saw a short, familiar feminine shape standing alone. It was Sumatra, and it was extremely wrong of her to be there, like that, so late. He left his position hurriedly and laid a hand on her arm. How, he demanded, had she got there, and why was she by herself? “Oh, Epes!” she exclaimed with pleasure. “The cotillon nearly killed me, it was so stupid; and then I heard the alarms, and James Saltonstall wanted to come; and so, you see, here we--here I am.” “Where is he? Why did he leave you?” Before she could answer there was a louder opposed shouting of voices: “Suck him dry, Exchange!” “Overwash them, Adams. Drown the damned silk stockings!” Sumatra clutched his hand excitedly. “Don’t you see--they are trying to burst the Exchange engine; we haven’t enough men to pump, because some didn’t leave Hamilton Hall, and James is at the sweep. You must go, too, Epes. Quick, quick, or it will be too late!” His negative attitude settled into an active perversity; Epes Calef made up his mind that he wouldn’t pump; they could knock the silly engines into painted fragments for all him. Sumatra gave him a strong impatient shove forward, but he resisted her. “The fire will be over in a few more minutes,” he observed. She damned the fire excitedly; it was the engine she cared about. “I’ll pump, myself!” Sumatra cried. He turned to her with a smile, but that was immediately lost as he saw that she had every intention of fulfilling her threat. Sumatra had started toward the profane companies of men when he caught her by the shoulder. He said coldly, “You’re crazy. Nobody ever heard of such a thing--a girl pumping at a fire! You’d be talked about, insulted in songs all over the country. Come home at once.”