“Yes, but it won’t be any hotter. It’s at the worst of the blaze now. Why don’t the firemen come?”
“Here they are!” cried Spider.
From down the highway came a confused sound—shouts and yells mingled with the galloping of horses and the rumble of the hose wagon.
Up dashed the Freeport fire department, glorious in red shirts and red helmets, with the red hose wagon in their midst.
“Unreel the hose!” yelled the chief.
“Better take the chemical line in first, Cooney,” suggested one of the red shirted men.
“Aw, don’t call me Cooney; call me Chief!” begged the head of the fire-fighters. “I say put the hose on the hydrant and squirt.”
Several men started to do this, but it was found that the nearest fire plug was farther away than the hose would reach, so it was unavailable for the fire.
“We’ve got to take the chemical, Cooney!” called another man. “Run the wagon nearer.”
“Aw, don’t call me Cooney, call me—” but his men did not stay to listen to his renewed pleading. The horses had been unhitched, and led away. Willing hands now dragged the wagon closer to the burning barn, and soon two lines of small hose to carry the chemical stream were unwound.