“Of course we are,” cried Macey. “Come on, lads; let’s go and help them get out the town squirt.”
They started for the main street at a trot, and Vane panted out:—
“I’ll lay a wager that the engine’s locked up, and that they can’t find the keys.”
“And when they do, the old pump won’t move,” cried Gilmore.
“And the hose will be all burst,” cried Macey.
“I thought we were going to help,” said Distin, coldly. “If you fellows chatter so, you’ll have no breath left.”
By this time they were among the houses, nearly everyone of which showed a light at the upper window.
“Here’s Bruff,” cried Vane, running up to a group of men, four of whom were carrying poles with iron hooks at the end—implements bearing a striking family resemblance to the pole drags said to be “kept in constant readiness,” by wharves, bridges, and docks.
“What have you got there, gardener?” shouted Gilmore.
“Hooks, sir, to tear off the burning thack.”