-escapes. You see, a red-hot ladder isn't much use to anybody.

[Illustration: A HOT PLACE.]

"Well, they got down, every soul of 'em, but by that time big chunks of
fire were dropping all around us, and our helmets were crumpling and our
clothes were burning. Besides that, we kept hearing little explosions
overhead, louder than the fire crackle, louder than pistol shots, and
when you hear those in a drug-house you don't feel any too good. I went
to the front, and saw fire breaking out everywhere on the fourth and
fifth floors. Then I knew it was all up, and ran back to order the boys
out. On the stairs I met Gillon, and was just yelling, 'Save
yourselves!' when the crash came. It was like cannon, sir, and sounded
_bzzzzzzzz_ in my ears for a long time, as I lay in the wreck, with
tongues of blue flames licking down over me. I'd been blown clean off
the second-floor landing and dropped in the hallway, twenty feet back
from the door. McArthur and Gillon were down the elevator shaft, where
they'd jumped. Nobody dared lift a head, for a cyclone of fire was all
over us."

It is not my purpose to detail the sufferings and final rescue of these
flame-bound men. They had some vivid glimpses of death and some cruel
burns, but firemen count these nothing, nor is McArthur's act in turning
back through fire to save a fallen comrade (Merron) more than ordinary
fireman's pluck, nor is Devanny's experience when caught in the second
explosion and blown through a shop on Washington Street more than an
ordinary hazard of the business. Indeed, this Tarrant fire should have
but little of my attention were there not something in it beyond noise
and house-smashing. There was this thing in it, overlooked by newspaper
reports, yet vastly important, the behavior of Bill Brown, to whom, as a
representative, one may say, of engine crew 29, came the great test I
spoke of, the rare test which nothing but the highest courage can
satisfy. All firemen have courage, but it cannot be known until the test
how many have this particular kind--Bill Brown's kind.

And the odd part of it is that what he did seems a little thing, and it
took only a minute to do, and it saved no life and made no difference
whatever in the outcome of the fire, yet to the few who know--or
care--it stands in the memories of the department as a fine and unusual
bit of heroism.

What happened was this: Engine 29, pumping and pounding her prettiest,
stood at the northwest corne