“All right. Now I’m going to tell you the God’s truth. Holtzer’d been making his cracks about how he only had to speak and you’d fall on his neck, until he had me so sore I ached wherever m’ clothes touched me. So, when I see him coasting down the roof, the one thing in my mind was that he’d go feeling sure that he was the star with you. I couldn’t stand that. No, sir! I couldn’t; so down I goes after him. When I snaked him up on the roof I tells him, ‘Cuss your thanks! I want this much out of you, you flappy-footed slob--you go to Mary Ellen to-day and see whether she’ll take you or not--I’ll bet you three months’ pay agin a cigaroot you get turned down.’ Now, I was within my rights there--but”--Fireman Carter stopped, wiped his hands on his handkerchief, wiped his forehead, blew his nose and swallowed hard. “But,” he continued bravely, “if all the yawp that pup of a newspaper kid got rid of has had anything to do with changing results, I don’t care for any of the pie. There wasn’t no ‘laying down his life for another’ nor anything of the kind in the whole play. It was just like I’m telling you. Well, that’s all. I--I thought you might like to hear about it.” There was a lamentable change in the strong voice at the last words. The speaker stared at the door and drummed on his cap until the silence became unendurable, then he raised his eyes slowly, as a condemned man might to the gallows. There sat Mary Ellen, drinking him in, still beatified. The meekest man who ever esteemed himself poor relation to the worm that squirmeth could not have mistaken the meaning of that glance. It was simply adoration. He straightened up and stared at her open-mouthed. “I’ll be durned if I believe she’s heard one word I said!” thought Fireman Carter. VI TEN MINUTES OF ETERNITY A REVOLVER, A RATTLER AND THE BOWL OF A PIPE The warm June sunshine flooded the prairie with light. A little frisky breeze made silky noises in the grasses. From the other end of the plowed ground came the clank of harness and the thud of hoof-beats, as the four-horse team drew the sulky-plow, squeaking and complaining. The monotonous work and soft air acted on the driver like a sleeping potion, and he nodded and drowsed on the seat, with the stem of a pipe clenched between his teeth. This man, Tommy, was for ever losing the bowl of his pipe, and it was a great treat for me, a boy of fourteen, to tell him of the loss and hear him inveigh against the offending member with all the wealth of his Irish-Western vocabulary. Tommy was full of strange oaths and more bearded than any of his pards. I giggled in anticipation as the plow drew near--sure enough! The bowl was gone. “Tommy!” I hailed. “Hay-oh! lad!” said he, snapping his eyes open. “Whoa, there!--have yer come out with ther grub call?” “No, Tommy--but the bowl of your pipe is gone.”