f's gymnastics, and immediately, one hand grasping the second rung,
one knee crooked over the lowest, leaned head down and took the nozzle
from Marsh. It was a heavy weight, and though Marsh supported the line
beneath it, the great stream hurtling forth made it a difficult thing to
manage, for it wriggled, recoiled and struggled as if it had been alive.
Crailey made three attempts to draw himself up; but the strain was too
much for his grip, and on the third attempt his fingers melted from
the rung, and he swung down fearfully, hanging by his knee, but still
clinging to the nozzle.

"Give it up, Crailey; it isn't worth it," Vanrevel called from overhead,
not daring the weight of both on the light grappling-ladder.

But though Crailey cared no more for the saving of Robert Carewe's
property than for a butterfly's wing in China, he could not give up now,
any more than as a lad he could have forborne to turn somersaults when
the prettiest little girl looked out of the school-house window. He
passed the nozzle to Tappingham, caught the second rung with his left
hand, and, once more hanging head downward, seized the nozzle; then,
with his knee hooked tight, as the gushing water described a huge
semicircle upon the smoke and hot vapor, he made a mad lurch through the
air, while women shrieked; but he landed upright, half-sitting on the
lowest rung. He climbed the grappling-ladder swiftly, in spite of the
weight and contortions of the unmanageable beast he carried with him;
Tom leaned far down and took it from him; and Crailey, passing the
eaves, fell, exhausted, upon the roof. Just as he reached this temporary
security, a lady was borne, fainting, out of the acclaiming crowd.
Fanchon was there.

Word had been passed to the gentlemen of the "Engine Company" to shut
off the water in order to allow the line to be carried up the ladder,
and they received the command at the moment Tom lifted the nozzle, so
that the stream dried up in his hands. This was the last straw, and the
blackened, singed and scarred chief, setting the trumpet to his lips,
gave himself entirely to wrath.

It struck Crailey, even as he lay, coughing and weeping with smoke, that
there was something splendid and large in the other's rage. Vanrevel was
ordinarily so steady and cool that this was worth seeing, this berserker
gesture; worth hearing, this wonderful profanity, like Washington's one
fit of cursing; and Crailey, knowing Tom, knew, too, that it had