s a maelstrom
of orders, counter orders, suggestions, objections, and hoarse yells.
Then a roar of wheels sounds outside, and you drop the bell-rope handle
and go out to see the finest sight of all.

I suppose those old Romans thought the chariot-races were pretty nifty,
but if an old Roman should reassemble himself and watch the dray-race to
a Homeburg fire, he'd wonder how he ever managed to sit through a silly
little dash around an arena. From the south comes a cloud of dust and a
terrific racket. At an equal distance from the east comes another cloud
of dust and an even more terrible uproar, Clay Billings's dray having
more loose spokes than Bill Dorgan's. The clouds approach with
tremendous speed. Bill is a little ahead. He is lashing his horses with
the ends of the reins, while from the bounding dray small articles of no
value, such as butter-firkins and cases of eggs, are emerging and
following on the road behind.

But Clay isn't beaten--not by a thousand miles. He's going to make it a
dead heat or better--no, Bill hit the crossing first. By George! That
Clay boy is a wonder. He deliberately pulled in and shot across behind
Bill, cutting off a good fifty feet. His team stops, sliding on their
haunches, and ten seconds later is being hitched to the hose-cart, while
Clay is on the seat clanging the foot-bell triumphantly. It's the
fiftieth race, or thereabouts, between the two, and the score is about
even. The winner gets two dollars for the use of his team. I've seen
horse-races for a thousand-dollar purse which weren't half as exciting.

In the meanwhile more messengers have arrived from the fire. It is in
the Mahlon Brown barn, and late advices indicate terrible progress. As
fast as forty-nine rival fingers can do it, the tugs are fastened, and
the cart is off down the street with a long trail of citizens after it.

Bill's team, badly blown, is hitched to the hook-and-ladder truck, and
willing hands push it out through the door. There is always more or less
of a feud between the hook-and-ladder boys and the hose-cart boys,
because the former get the second team and rarely arrive at the fire in
time to hoist the beautiful blue ladders before the hose-cart gang puts
the conflagration out. Indeed, the feeling has gotten so strong at times
that the hook-and-ladder gang has threatened to double the prize-money
by private subscription and get their rig out first, but patriotism has
thus far prevented this.

You h