ll from the structure, say
at 11.50 A.M., his pay stops short not at twelve o'clock, but at ten
minutes before twelve. Which is probably excellent business, although it
seems poor humanity.

THE FIREMAN

I

WHEREIN WE SEE A SLEEPING VILLAGE SWEPT BY A RIVER OF FIRE AND THE
BURNING OF A FAMOUS HOTEL

I WILL first tell a story, fresh in my memory, about a New Jersey
village lost in the hills back of Lake Hopatcong, a charming, sleepy
little village that reaches along a stream fringed with butterball-trees
and looks contentedly out of its valley up the steep wooded hill that
rises before it. Nobody in Glen Gardner cares much what there is in the
world beyond that hill.

The general attitude of Glen Gardner toward progress is shown well
enough by this, that the village could never see the use of a fire
department. They never had one, and never proposed to; other people's
houses might get on fire; theirs never did. As a matter of fact, nobody
could remember when there had been a fire in Glen Gardner, unless it was
Aunt Ann Fritts, who was eighty-eight years old, and remembered back
farther than was necessary.

[Illustration: BURNING OIL-TANKS.]

This was the case on a certain drizzling Sunday in March of the
new-century year, when, at 6.30 A.M., the world beyond the hill intruded
itself upon Glen Gardner's peacefulness in such strange and sudden
fashion that old Mrs. Bergstresser collapsed from the shock. What made
it worse was the fact that there had been a dance the night before at
Farmer Apgar's, and half-past six found most of the village dozing
comfortably. There was really nothing to do before church-time. So they
all thought, at least, little suspecting that even now, as they slept, a
long oil-train was puffing up the steep grade from Easton, bringing
sixty cars loaded with crude petroleum and trouble.

On came the oil-train, its front engine panting as the drivers slipped,
and the "pusher" back of the caboose shouldering up the load with snorts
of impatience. Ouf! The front of the train climbs over the ridge at
Hampton Junction, half a mile back of Glen Gardner, where the Jersey
Central tracks reach their highest point. Now they are all right. There
is a long down grade ahead for three miles. The pusher gives a final
shove at the rear end, and cuts loose, glad to be rid of the job. The
men in the caboose wave good-by to the fireman and engineer as they drop
away.

Hello! What's that jerk? T