It was as Amos groped for a next word that the siren began to blow. This was the signal for the morning’s casting. The engineer must have been in good spirits that morning, for he gave more than full measure on the blast. The whistle shrieked and roared till the very windows rattled and shivered in their places; and Wint, at the first sound, whipped up his hands to shield his agonized ears, and dropped on the bed and held his head and groaned until his groan became almost a shriek with the pain. Then, when the siren died into silence, he got dully to his feet, and glared at Amos, who said huskily: “I’d like t’ kill man that did that. Like to dynamite that whistle. Anything--make it keep quiet.” Amos suddenly smiled; then he chuckled. “Well, Wint,” he said quickly, “there’s ways to make it keep quiet.” Wint looked at him with torpid interest. “I’ll bite,” he said. “Tell me one.” Amos waved his hands. “Why, f’r instance, the Mayor has power to enforce the abatement of a nuisance. Make them shut off that whistle, if it’s a nuisance. Anything like that.” Wint swayed on his feet, and steadied himself with a hand on the foot of the bed. “Can the Mayor do a thing like that--on the square?” “Why, sure,” said Amos. Wint grinned; a cracked and painful grin, but mirthful too; and he took a step forward. “Then say,” he exclaimed. “Then say! There’s something in this Mayor job, after all....” “Sure there is!” Wint gripped Amos’ arm. “Lead me to that cold, cold tub,” he enjoined. END OF BOOK II BOOK III INTO HARNESS CHAPTER I ON HIS OWN FEET The inauguration of a small-town Mayor is no great matter for excitement. But Hardiston was interested in Wint, and wanted to have a look at him, so everybody came to see him step into his new responsibilities. The Hardiston council chamber was on the second floor of the fire house. This was a three-story building of red brick, and a place of awe and wonder for the small boys of the town. The fire engine and the hose cart were kept on the ground floor, in front. Behind them were the stalls for the four sleek horses; behind the stalls again, a number of iron-barred stalls for human beings. Here were housed the minor criminals, arrested by Marshal Jim Radabaugh for petty peculations or disorders, and waiting for their hearings before the Mayor. These little cells were not designed to house prisoners for any length of time, and for the most part they were furnished simply with heaps of straw pilfered from the supply that was kept for the fire horses. The town drunkard, when the marshal got him, was treated as well as the fire horses; and this is more than may be said in larger towns than Hardiston.