e this announcement: "Why, boys--it's--it's our Old Silver;
jiggered if it ain't!"

Each member of the crew having expressed his astonishment in
appropriate words, Lannigan tried to sum it all up by saying:

"Silver, you old sinner! So they've put you in a blanked ash-cart, have
they? Well, I'll--I'll be----"

But there speech failed him. His wits did not. There was a whispered
council of war. Lannigan made a daring proposal, at which all grinned
appreciatively.

"Sure, they'd never find out," said one.

"An' see, his game leg's most as good as new again," suggested another.

It was an unheard-of, audacious, and preposterous proceeding; one which
the rules and regulations of the Fire Department, many and varied as
they are, never anticipated. But it was adopted. Meanwhile the Captain
found it necessary to inspect the interior of the building, the
Lieutenant turned his back, and the thing was done.

That same evening an ill-tempered and very dirty ash-cart driver turned
up at the stables with a different horse from the one he had driven out
that morning, much to the mystification of himself and certain officials
of the Department of Street Cleaning.

Also, there pranced back as nigh horse of the truck a big gray with one
slightly swollen hind leg. By the way he held his head, by the look in
his big, bright eyes, and by his fancy stepping one might have thought
him glad to be where he was. And it was so. As for the rest, Lannigan
will tell you in strict confidence that the best mode of disguising
hoof-brands until they are effaced by new growth is to fill them with
axle-grease. It cannot be detected.

Should you ever chance to see, swinging up lower Broadway, a
hook-and-ladder truck drawn by three big grays jumping in perfect
unison, note especially the nigh horse--that's the one on the left side
looking forward. It will be Old Silver who, although now rising sixteen,
seems to be good for at least another four years of active service.

BLUE BLAZES

AND THE MARRING OF HIM

Those who should know say that a colt may have no worse luck than to be
foaled on a wet Friday. On a most amazingly wet Friday--rain above,
slush below, and a March snorter roaring between--such was the natal day
of Blue Blazes.

And an unhandsome colt he was. His broomstick legs seemed twice the
proper length, and so thin you would hardly have believed they could
ever carry him. His head, which somehow suggested the lines of a
b