"Get out of the way so that I can put this fire out. You are kicking it all over the place," the bookkeeper responded. "I have as much right here as you--you big lump of grease," proclaimed Mr. Jones as he inspected with indignation the dark colored belt with which he had been invested. Kelly cast a menacing look at the stenographer. "If you don't shut up, I am going to stick this nozzle down your throat," he threatened. Mr. Jones watched the fizzling stream as if estimating its physiological effect under the conditions named, and remained silent. Loud laughter sounded in the kitchen. Ike, cooled by his bath, had presented himself for comforting. Serena thus welcomed him. "Dey souse you in saltpeter an' you done smoke youse'f so you mus' be cu'ed lak er ham. Sit by de stove. Ah gwine give you er cup o' coffee," she chuckled, "ef yo'all smells ham er feels youse'f er beginnin' to fry, git out o' yere afo you greases de flo." So Ike rested in comfort, sandwiches and coffee at his side, and smiled pleasantly upon the maids. Truly, after affliction, he had entered into the blessings of the promised land. The fire was out. Kelly moved to return the extinguisher to its place. With a thud, a white bundle dropped from the third floor upon his head. It appeared soft but upon its touch Kelly sank to the ground, blinking vacantly. Forgetful of their recent altercation, Mr. Jones rushed to his fellow worker's assistance. "What's the matter?" he demanded. Kelly rubbed his head. "Somebody hit me with a rock," he answered, observing Mr. Jones meanwhile with suspicion. The stenographer kicked the bundle open. Then, howling with pain, he grabbed his toe. In the center of the bundle lay a mantel clock. "Might have killed you--easy," he spluttered at Kelly, and raised indignant eyes to where an old woman, her wrinkled face filled with anxiety, leaned over the railing. "Did you throw that clock?" demanded Mr. Jones. She held her hand to her ear and smiled sweetly. "What?" she called. "Clock," bawled Mr. Jones. "Did you drop that clock?" "I can't hear you," she answered. "Clock," yelled the private secretary. "Yes, it's mine. Thank you for telling me that it is not hurt," she responded in great contentment to the vexed Mr. Jones. The reunited official staff of Obadiah moved on, one member limping, the other caressing his head. Gentle peace returned for the moment to the emotion-swept aged ones. But now, through the gates of the Home rushes the fire department of South Ridgefield. With awe inspiring roar and mighty clangor of bells the engines advance, reflecting gorgeously in the afternoon sun. Taxpayers must have thrilled with pride as they remarked the speed of approach and energy with which these public servants entered upon their duties. Even as they halt, powerful pumps sound, ready to deluge the edifice with water while enthusiastic men with axes rush into the halls and upon the roof, prepared to hew.