“Sqi’wt watto,” repeated Anthony, laughing. “What do you mean by——? Oh, I see——” as Tony demonstrated his meaning by running to the garden hose which remained attached to a hydrant behind the house. “Well, son—if I let you have a real fire and put it out with real water, will you promise me never to try anything of that sort by yourself?”
Tony walked over to his father and laid a little brown fist in Anthony’s. “Aw wight,” he said solemnly. Anthony looked down at the clasped hands and smiled at the serious uplifted face. “Is that the way mother teaches you to promise her?” he asked, with interest.
Tony nodded. “Aw wight,” he said. “Come on. Le’s make fire!”
The fire was made, out of a packing-box brought up from the cellar. It burned realistically down by the orchard, and was only discovered by chance when Anthony Robeson, Junior, happened to glance that way.
“Fire!—fire!” he shouted, and alarmed the fire company, who, as fire companies should be, were ready to start on the instant. The hose-cart, propelled by a pair of stout legs, made a gallant dash down the edge of the garden, followed by the hook-and-ladder company, their equipment just three feet long. It took energetic and skilful work to quench the conflagration, which raged furiously and made plenty of good black smoke. The fire chief rushed dramatically about, ordering his men with ringing commands. Once he stubbed his bare toe and fell, and for a moment it looked as though he must cry, but like the brave fellow that he was he smothered his pain behind an uplifted elbow, and in a moment was again in the thick of the fray. His men obeyed him with admirable promptitude, although, contrary to the usual custom of fire chiefs, he himself took hold of the hose and poured its volume upon the blazing structure.
When the fire was out the chief, breathless, his blue blouse bearing the marks of the encounter with flood and flame, sat down upon the overturned hose-cart and beamed upon his company.
“Vat was awful nice fire,” he said. “Le’s have anuver.”
“Another? Oh, no,” protested the company, hastily. “No more of that just now. Pick up your hook-and-ladder wagon and put it back where it belongs. I’ll see to the hose.”
Anthony gently displaced the fire chief and rolled away the hose. Then he looked back down the garden and saw his son poking among the ruins of the fire. “Come here, Tony,” he called, “and bring the hook-and-ladder.”
Tony came slowly, but without the toy wagon. Anthony stood still. When the boy reached him he said, “Why didn’t you bring the hook-and-ladder cart?”