Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 157: what you’re looking at

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

TEAKETTLE TEN. lay another line up the other side. J’ll hold this end meself!”’ Malone grumbled his answer and the crew of Engine Ten slid back into the pow- dery night. Alone on the grilled landing of his fire-escape, Stone Age Sullivan sank down in his rubber coat, breathed in short gasps, and prepared to fry. A minute passed—two of them. Then a wheeze of air at the nozzle told that Razmus was sending water. The great brass tip slid upward toward the third story window, where flames pawed out like lusty horses. A spurt of brown water, a growl as the air bubbles rushed through, and then came the stream, a pink column one inch thick, that charged into the window frame above, rattled against the wall, and hissed as it turned to steam. The fire, which had been performing an- tics on the high ledge, withdrew into the building. Stone Age Sullivan went up another step. Then a flame tipped over the cornice and lashed a hot, stinging tongue downward. The nozzle tilted higher and raked the roof line; the fire retreated. Sullivan went up another step. He felt sick, “It’s the blasted smell,” he growled to himself, and pressed his hurt arm tight against his side. Within there was a crunching of timbers, as a floor heavy-laden with bales, crashed through its burned joists. The fire, given air and fresh encouragement, leaped out of a hole in the roof, explored the night sky and sank back, dampened with snow. The nozzle shifted back to the window. The stream poured through this time, strik- ing the rafters aslant, raining down five hundred gallons a minute. The hose jerked, with that thudding inequality of power that comes from worn out steam pumps. Muddy little streams ran over the window sill. Stone Age Sullivan went up another step. “ Biast me hand!” he squeaked when he tried to grip the nozzle again, “the dirty thing’s bleedin’!” There was a cry on the ground below. Sullivan locked down, wasted water and stared. It was not his own men returned with the second line. Twenty helmeted and rubber-sheeted figures were charging toward the foot of his icy fire-escape. In the lead, even in the unsteady light, and through the soupy mixture of smoke and snow, he made out the form of Mike Mc- Quire, holding a brass nozzle fiercely against his chest. ‘“ Thirty-Two got here!” Stone Age Sullivan felt ashamed for a moment. Then he recovered his old hate and returned to his job. He shifted the position of his stream and went up another step. Captain Mike McQuire began climbing. ‘““ Water!” he shouted to his men, “ pass the word back; charge the line!” He stumbled up the fire-escape, and halted at the landing, just below Sullivan’s heels, “Tt was a bad fire here last night,” squeaked the commander of Teakettle Ten; ‘““yvou ought to have been on hand.” “Lay off, Sullivan!” growled McQuire. “Can’t you see I’m sent to help?” “ Might help around the back—I’m han- dling it here!” His words were broken by a grunting roof that fell in upon the sagged floors and sent a great troop of excited sparks into the snowflakes. The wind off the lake, tem- pered before, grew surly hot, and Stone Age Sullivan ducked deeper into his rubber coat. A spurt of water from McQuire’s nozzle slapped against the building and disap- peared in steam. Stone Age Sullivan laughed and shot his own stream higher. ‘‘Where’s your power?” he asked deris- ively. ‘“ You ain’t got the strength of my Teakettle!” “ Ain’t hogging the fire-escape,” returned McQuire, and yanked on his line. “Room first for them as has water,” Sullivan retorted. McQuire whipped his stream irritably. Tt lifted in a bent column that lacked push or force. Sullivan tittered. “How far off’s your engine at?” he asked. ‘ Awful unhealthy,” he persisted. “ Think you got two hundred gallons?” “We're three blocks off!” McQuire attempted compromise. “Sure, same as the rest of your fancy wagons.” oO GOmMmicsvoOoks.=co 187 5}