After they had gone some distance the Policeman began shouting in remonstrance, and King Stanislaus ordered a halt to hear what he had to say. “What is it, officer?” asked His Majesty. “We’ve got to go back,” panted the Policeman. “Some of us forgot to put on red shirts.”
Though King Stanislaus felt very much chagrined at such neglect, he realized that it was now too late to remedy this most important matter, for every passing moment was precious. So he bellowed through the trumpet instructions to continue, and pulling and straining at the ropes they flew on, with the engine and hose-carriage bumping, lurching, and swaying after them.
On and on they went, pit-patting at last across the rickety old wooden bridge, but before they could drag the engine across it one of the planks snapped in two under its weight, and the wheels on one side went down through the opening almost as far as the water below.
The engine was firmly stuck, and though the Brownies tugged and strained at the rope, puffing, panting, and exerting all their strength, they could not even so much as budge it.
Nearer and nearer came the terrible river of fire, and the volcano seemed to be reaching even greater activity. It looked as though this effort of the Brownies was in vain.
