The same was true of Big Six and Rough-and-Ready Seven.
I never heard a more eloquent orator than the foreman of Cataract Eight, as he stood on the box of his engine, pounded with his trumpet on the air-chamber, and exhorted the men to "down with the brakes!" "shake her up lively!" "rattle the irons!" "don't be washed!" etc., all of which expressions seemed to have one meaning, and the brakes came down upon the edges of the box like the blows of a trip-hammer, making the engine dance about as if it were of pasteboard.
The foreman of Red Rover Three was also excited, and things in that quarter were equally lively.
For a considerable time it was an even contest. Eight's box was kept almost full of water, and no more; while it seemed as if both companies had attained the utmost rapidity of stroke that flesh and bones were capable of, or wood and iron could endure.
But at last four fresh men, belonging to Red Rover Three, who had been on some detached service, came up, leaped upon the box, and each putting a foot upon the brakes, added a few pounds to their momentum.
The water rose rapidly in Eight's box, and in about a minute completely overflowed it, drenching the legs of her men, and making everything disagreeable in the vicinity.
A shout went up from the bystanders, and Three's men instantly stopped work, took off their hats, and gave three tremendous cheers.
We had washed her.
Big Six was trying to do the same thing by Rough-and-Ready Seven, and had almost succeeded when the hose burst. Phaeton and I were standing within a step of the spot where it gave way, and we ourselves were washed.
"Let's go home," said he, as he surrendered his axe and fire-hat to a Hook-and-Ladder man.