"Where is the fire?" demanded the chief in a voice of authority. Silently, Mrs. Bean led him to the blackened leaves. "Who turned in that alarm?" he asked with great sternness. "I did," calmly replied the widow of three. For a moment he looked down into the wrinkled face filled with the pride and satisfaction of duty well done. He raised his helmet and scratched his head. "The whole department out for a bonfire," he grumbled. Virginia came and smiled timidly at this burly man. "I am sorry that you have been given all of this trouble," she said. "I have arranged to serve refreshments to your men, if you don't object." When his little hostess left him, the grim old fire fighter stood at the head of the steps and gazed at the waiters ministering with energy to the voracious appetites of his men. "Huh," he chuckled, "looks like that blame bonfire cooked up a pretty good feed for my boys." The concert ended and the musicians awaited, in a group, the truck which was to take them back to the Soldiers' Home. Colonel Ryan went to speak to the leader. As he turned to Virginia, who had been at his side, he discovered her thanking the members of the organization individually for their part in the concert. "Your music was beautiful," she told a cornet player. "Every one enjoyed it so much." She made apology to the entire number. "It is too bad that the fire alarm disturbed you." "That weren't no disturbance, Ma'am," the cornetist reassured her. He was bowed with age and had a shrill cracked voice. Tucking his instrument under his arm, he filled a disreputable pipe and went on. "No, Ma'am, that weren't what I'd call no disturbance. In the war our old Colonel used to make us go out on the skirmish line and play. Our leader allowed that the rattle of bullets on the drum heads ruined the time." "How brave of you," Virginia marveled at this thumping tale of war. "Had to be brave in my regiment, Ma'am. Old Colonel Dean was a bob-cat and he expected his men to be catamounts," he cackled. A clarionetist chewed a stubby mustache and listened to the remarks of the cornet player with a hostile air. "They ain't over their squallin' yit," he proclaimed, and the musicians roared with laughter. Shaking his old pipe wrathfully at his fellows, the man with the cornet challenged them. "Colonel Dean was a bob-cat," he maintained. "A ragin', clawin', scratchin', bob-cat of a fighter and the whole regiment was just like the old man." As the name Dean was mentioned, an old lady arose from a group with whom she had been chatting and drew near the musicians. She was tall and dignified and a cap of lace was pinned upon her snowy head. She peered at the cornetist through her spectacles. "Were you speaking of Colonel Dean of the Infantry?" she asked sweetly.