“Where's it at?”
“FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Sm-poohl Fi—(gulp)—FIRE!”
“It's Linc Hoover. Hay, Linc! Where's the fire?”
“FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! ha, ha! FIRE!”
“Hay, Linc! Where's it at? Tell me and I'll run. Hay! Where's it at?”
“FIRE! Swope's be—(gulp) Swope's barn. FIRE!”
“Which Swope? Henry or the old man?”
“FIRE! Pooh! J. K. Swope. Whoo-ha, whooh-ha! Out out on West End Avenue. Poof!”
The news thus being passed, the fresher runners scampered ahead, bawling: “FOY-URRR' FOY-URRR! and Linc, the hero, slowed down, gasping for breath and spitting cotton.
“Whew!” he whistled, gustily, his arms dropping and his whole frame collapsing. “Gee! I'm 'bout tuckered. Sm-pooh! Sm-pooh! Run all th' way f'm—sm-ha, sm-ha!—run all th' way f'm—mouth's all stuck together—p'too! ha! Pooh! Fm West End Avenue and Swo—Swope's. Gee! I'm hot's flitter.”