Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 154: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

184 waited for shovels to dig them out. Stone Age Sullivan worked with his men to clear his own driveway. And at midnight sharp came a call from Box 816, It is a “ far box,” this alarm 816, cen- itrally enough located, but stuck in seclusion, behind high rows of warehouses back of the north slip of the river, a place of silence after sundown except for the feet of watch- men. The hose wagon hitch led out. They were a fast, lean team that pulled the hose. They “minded the gong,” lunged when the cap- tain’s toe tripped quick, slowed to a lope if he rang in barks. Teakettle Ten lumbered in the drifted wake, its slower horses step- ping high, snorting, whipping back their tails, annoyed that any man should so for- get himself as to discover fire on such a night. Stone Age Sullivan held the first team down himself; Driver Pat Malone used the whip and listened. Snow was hub deep in Illinois Street. At the corner of Cass the lead horses pawed, wallowed, broke a trail and plunged on, a heavy, sidewheel gait that did for a gallop. Stone Age Sullivan banged his bell, the engine answered half a block behind, ‘whining, its tune a singsong. Across Dearborn Street and State, through those tortuous byways back of the Tribune plant, hose team and engine of Teakettle Ten floundered on their last snowy run. At Michigan Boulevard Sullivan looked sharply to his right. Hard, bright lights showed another car, that kicked up snow as high as the top bridge girders. ss Thirty-Two—Mike McQuire! ” the commander of Teakettle Ten growled to his driver. “ Won’t they find sweet running over here!” Pat Malone did not answer; he was watching the horses. They left the boule- vard behind, and came out into the open, that flat, newly made territory which edges the shore of Lake Michigan, unbuilt, where winds from the north play ireely across vast unbroken acres. The snow whipped down like a fog, and put out the lights behind. Dats: ‘covered the wheels, the hose wagon labored. Behind, less insistent than before, the soprano bell of Teakettle Ten cried through the wind. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Another-sound fell in behind them. En- gine Thirty-Two sped into the horses’ tracks, its siren gave a burst of gasoline exuberance, then trailed into silence. “Stuck!” squealed Stone Age Sullivan. “Hear ’em? They’s stuck!” He sucked his breath triumphantly. ‘‘ There’s a blasted motor for ye!” “Look there!” Malone lifted his mitten in front of him, pointing toward the river bank, where the last of the tall warehouses lift their smoke-shawled heads above the city. A thin glimmer of pink light seeped through the snow whirl, floated brighter and disappeared. ““She’s busted through—whatever she is!” Sullivan said; then to the team: “ Easy, Buck—easy, Mack!” The hose wagon groaned to a halt. Its tired horses reared, strained, and fell back. Stone Age Sullivan turned on his other men. ‘ Shovels, you guys!” he cried to Pipe- men Henry and Steimel, who hung on the rear step; “shovel and get us out!” The two firemen jerked their broad-lipped scoops from atop the hose and waded around the wheels. They burrowed into the six foot drift that had blocked the team’s fore legs, snow. flew away in a screeching wind. Once more the path was broken, the bell of the engine whined closer behind. The hose wagon slid forward. The pink light had become steadier now. Tt blurred the snow-softened landscape into strange shadows and purplish highlights. Once more the siren of Engine Thirty-Two wailed dismally across the drifts, coughed and hiccuped into silence—Mike McQuire was shovelling again. Engine Ten was profiting this time by its ancient equip-- ment; Stone Age Sullivan swore good naturedly. “Over here’s a plug—you, Henry—look for it! Course it’s buried—dig!” Henry leaped off the tail board again, and bucked the snow. His figure, buried to the waist, made a long jumping shadow. Malone craned forward, staring into the vague red blur ahead where the fire was. “Tt’s that ratty old hide warehouse,” he announced, “ down near the north slip.” “Cobwebs and powder!” answered his 9A COMMC DOOLKS (©)