"Where's the horses? Where's the fire company?" demanded the new-comer, hurriedly, stopping in perplexity.
"Men is the hosses that pull this old water-bug!" volunteered one of the youths, ceasing his efforts to move the antiquated vehicle; "'n' the fire comp'ny's anybody that's got spunk 'nough to fight fire!"
As these words were spoken a number of men reached the scene, some of them bareheaded and wearing only shoes, trousers and shirts, and pounced upon the engine like wolves upon a carcass.
"Come on!" "Lend a hand!" "Git holt!" "Push!" "Pull!"
These and divers other excited exclamations rang out, and in the cupola directly overhead the brazen tongued bell sent out its warning, appeal and encouragement in vibrant and deafening tones.
Glenning needed no spurring on. His hands were the first to fall into place, and with rumble and rush the Macon Fire Company started on its errand of succour. The hook-and-ladder wagon, being lighter, was dragged along by half grown boys, who took a keen delight in emulating, both in speed and endurance, their elders in the lead. To the accompaniment of yelping dogs, men in vehicles and men on horseback, the procession rushed madly up Main street, rudely disturbing the calm serenity of the summer night. As he ran, doing his full stint of work, and more, the athletic stranger cast his eyes about in a vain effort to locate the conflagration. He turned to the man running nearest him.
"Do you suppose it's out? I can see no sign of it now."
"No; it ain't out! Cemetery hill's in the way. There's been nothin' to put it out. An old white man, a girl and two old niggers couldn't do much with a house on fire!"
Glenning noticed from the straggling houses and vacant lots that they were nearing the edge of town.
"Where is it, anyway?" he asked. "In the country?"