Two standpipes were trained on the pier for which the fire was reaching, and a third was turned on the nearest coal wharf, to wet it down. But the brewery was beyond the reach of the stationary nozzles, being across the road from the foot of the pier at which the Hudson had tied up. And Captain Keighley, peering through the smoke, could see a squad of volunteer firemen vainly trying to reach the roof of the brewery with streams that fell short of the third story. He was ordering a line of hose stretched up the pier to aid them, when a fat man, red-shirted, in the white helmet of a chief, came puffing corpulently down the wharf towards the boat, waving a speaking trumpet.
It was Dolger.
He was whiskered like a Boer, and his beard swept the embroidered front of a yellow plastron that reached to the bulge of his waist. He waved his hand at them, and yelled breathlessly, “Vill idt cost de county?”
Noonan forgot his duties at the standpipe and came over to ask, “What is it, Dan? What’s he talkin’ about?”
Keighley shook his head and looked away from the spectacle of an excited old man making himself ridiculous. Dolger ran to the squad in the stern, and shouted, “Vat’ll idt cost de county?”
“Shine” answered impudently over his shoulder, “Nuddings, if yuh don’t charge us fer the water.”
“No, dot’s free,” Dolger panted. “Come along mit idt. I’ll show yah vat idt is to do.”
The men grinned, and went on with their work of getting their hose out of its box. “Shine” said, “Dot voss Santa Claus in der red shirt. Vee gates vos loss mit ’im.”
Dolger threw back his shoulders and blew out his belt like a drum major. “De cabt’n—vich is he?” he demanded.
Keighley had turned his back to direct the stream which Noonan was neglecting, and the men, glancing up at the wheelhouse, understood that their captain intended to leave the resplendent chief to them to deal with.