“Go ahead!” yelled the hydrant man to the driver. Off rattled the wagon, dropping a lengthening trail of hose. The instant they stopped, the firemen screwed on the pipe and began to drag the line toward the yard. Close by stood the oil-tank, big and black, with the smoke eddying thickly round it. Thirty feet below lay the lumber piles. Dropping their hose over the edge of the stone wall, they slid down to the ground. “Play away, 5!” shouted Remfry, pulling down more line. They were in a space between high board-piles, and a strong wind was driving the fire and smoke toward them. The spot might easily become a dangerous trap. “Come on, Tom!” bellowed Penfield, tugging at the pipe. “Let’s get well in before the water comes.” The piles were twenty feet apart. Round a corner twice as far ahead red tongues were spurting. Already the air was hot and thick. Crouching, they dragged the line along several yards. Remfry was wild with impatience. He was responsible for that fire. He must put it out. “Far enough!” he gasped at last. “Isn’t that water ever coming?” It was fully five hundred feet to the engine. A few lengths from it the three-inch hose was “Siamesed” off into two smaller lines, one of which ran to the impatient call-men. Suddenly a tremor shook the closely woven cotton. “Here it is!” exclaimed Penfield. _Psht! Psht!_ hissed the nozzle. Spasmodically at first, but in a few seconds foaming strongly under a two-hundred pound pressure, the water came. The two rested the pipe over their knees, grasping the handles firmly, interlocking fingers under the tip. A powerful white jet was soon bombarding the burning pine. The hose stiffened under their hands, responsive to every impulse from the engine. It was like a live thing, struggling to escape. But they knew its tricks, and held it hard. Three years they had been together on the pipe, and never once had it got away from them. At the very apex of the fire they literally held the safety of the city in their hands. Behind them loomed the gaunt, black oil-tank. Should the flames reach its ten thousand gallons nothing could save the city. Remfry groaned at the thought. He envied Penfield. Penfield had only the fire to think of. That was bad enough, to be sure. But it was tenfold worse for him, Tom Remfry, to feel that he might have prevented all this, had he only gone to Steel Bridge with his boys. Low as they might stoop, they could not avoid the smoke. Their smarting eyes could barely see to direct the jet. Both were choking. Penfield leaned forward and thrust his hand into the stream to spray his face. His foot slipped; he lost his balance; his grip on the handle loosened. With a tremendous leap the pipe wrenched out of the men’s grasp, and disappeared straight up in the thick smoke.