ft at my door
tells the story of a fireman who, laid up with a broken ankle in an
up-town hospital, jumped out of bed, forgetting his injury, when the
alarm-gong rang his signal, and tried to go to the fire. The
fire-alarms are rung in the hospitals for the information of the
ambulance corps. The crippled fireman heard the signal at the dead of
night, and, only half awake, jumped out of bed, groped about for the
sliding-pole, and, getting hold of the bedpost, tried to slide down
that. The plaster cast about his ankle was broken, the old injury
reopened, and he was seriously hurt.

New York firemen have a proud saying that they "fight fire from the
inside." It means unhesitating courage, prompt sacrifice, and victory
gained, all in one. The saving of life that gets into the newspapers
and wins applause is done, of necessity, largely from the outside, but
is none the less perilous for that. Sometimes, though rarely, it has
in its intense gravity almost a comic tinge, as at one of the
infrequent fires in the Mulberry Bend some years ago. The Italians
believe, with reason, that there is bad luck in fire, therefore do not
insure, and have few fires. Of this one the Romolo family shrine was
the cause. The lamp upon it exploded, and the tenement was ablaze when
the firemen came. The policeman on the beat had tried to save Mrs.
Romolo; but she clung to the bedpost, and refused to go without the
rest of the family. So he seized the baby, and rolled down the
burning stairs with it, his beard and coat afire. The only way out was
shut off when the engines arrived. The Romolos shrieked at the
top-floor window, threatening to throw themselves out. There was not a
moment to be lost. Lying flat on the roof, with their heads over the
cornice, the firemen fished the two children out of the window with
their hooks. The ladders were run up in time for the father and
mother.

The readiness of resource no less than the intrepid courage and
athletic skill of the rescuers evoke enthusiastic admiration. Two
instances stand out in my recollection among many. Of one Fireman
Howe, who had on more than one occasion signally distinguished
himself, was the hero. It happened on the morning of January 2, 1896,
when the Geneva Club on Lexington Avenue was burnt out. Fireman Howe
drove Hook-and-Ladder No. 7 to the fire that morning, to find two
boarders at the third-story window, hemmed in by flames which already
showed behind them. Followed by Firema