y doesn't somebody go tell him to come away? Not you! Don't you
think of such a trick! Oh, why does he risk his life for a lot of trash
I wouldn't have around the house?"

The smoke oozes out of the open window. It must be choking in there.
For a long time no jettison of household goods appears. Perhaps the man,
whoever he is, has seen his peril and fled while yet it was possible to
flee. Ah, but suppose he has been overcome and lies there huddled in a
heap, never to rouse again? Is there none to save him? Is there none?
Ah! A couple of collars and a magazine flutter out into the light! He
is still there. He is still alive. Plague take the idiot! Why doesn't he
come down out of that?

"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff. Yoffemoff!"

But no! He will do it himself. The Chief rushes gallantly into the
burning building and disappears up the dark stair.

Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line of
men forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce glow, but
daring it, and prepared to face it at even closer range. You are to
witness now an exhibition of that heroism which is commoner with us
than we think, that spirit of do and dare which mocks at danger and
even welcomes pain. It is a far finer sentiment than the cold-hearted
calculation which looks ahead, and figures out first whether it is worth
while or not.

The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste they fix
the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and scamper back.

"Yo hee! Yo hee!"

The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You can
almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it.

"Yo hee! Yo hee!"

With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of lattice-work
is dragged away.

Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and torn to
rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these kindlings saved
when the whole house is burning? Is this what you call heroism? Yet
the charge at Balaklava was not more futile. It had even less of
commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind to back it and inspire
it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout policy. Its quality is the
same, in two-ounce samples or in car-load lots.

The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists and
stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it were, a golden
grille, through which the world may look unhindered in upon the holy
place of home, heretofore conven