regular foreman took his station with the rest of the crew. Uncle
Brad Trufant, foreman emeritus, took command. He climbed slowly upon
her tank, braced himself against the bell-hanger, and shook his cane
in the air.

"Look at me!" he yelled, his voice cracking into a squall. "Look at
me and remember them that's dead and gone, your fathers and your
grands'rs, whose old fists used to grip them bars right where you've
got your hands. Think of 'em, and then set your teeth and yank the
'tarnal daylights out of her. Are ye goin' to let me stand here--me
that has seen your grands'rs pump--and have it said that old Niag'ry
was licked by a passul of knittin'-work old-maids, led by an elephant
and a peep-show man? Be ye goin' to let 'em outsquirt ye? Why, the
wimmen-folks of Vienny will put p'isen in your biscuits if you go
home beat by anything that Smyrna can turn out. Git a-holt them bars!
Clench your chaws! Now, damye, ye toggle-j'inted, dough-fingered,
wall-eyed sons of sea-cooks, give her tar--_give_--_her_--_tar!_"

It was the old-fashioned style of exordium by an old-fashioned
foreman, who believed that the best results could be obtained by the
most scurrilous abuse of his men--and the immediate efforts of Vienna
seemed to endorse his opinion.

With the foreman marking time with "Hoomp!--hoomp!" they began to
surge at the bars, arms interlaced, hands, brown and gristly,
covering the leather from end to end. The long, snaking hose filled
and plumped out with snappings.

Uncle Trufant flung his hat afar, doubled forward, and with white
hair bristling on his head began to curse horribly. Occasionally he
rapped at a laggard with his cane. Then, like an insane
orchestra-leader, he sliced the air about his head and launched fresh
volleys of picturesque profanity.

Old Niagara rocked and danced. The four hosemen staggered as the
stream ripped from the nozzle, crackling like pistol discharges.
There was no question as to Uncle Trufant's ability to get the most
out of the ancient pride of Vienna. He knew Niagara's resources.

"Ease her!" he screamed, after the first dizzy staccato of the beams.
"Ease her! Steady! Get your motion! Up--down! Up--down! Get your
motion! Take holt of her! Lift her! Now--now--_now!_ For the last
ounce of wickin' that's in ye! Give her--_hell!_"

It was the crucial effort. Men flung themselves at the beams. Legs
flapped like garments on a clothes-line in a crazy gale. And when
Uncle Trufant clas