those on the machines. He dashed around a corner to encounter a double line
of men, running at full speed, hauling on a long rope attached to an
engine. Their mouths were open, and they were all yelling. The light engine
careened and swayed and bumped. Two men clung to the short steering tongue,
trying to guide it. They were thrown violently from side to side, dragged
here and there, tripping, hauling, falling across the tongue, but managing
to keep the machine from dashing off at a tangent. Above them, high and
precarious, swayed the short stout figure of Bert Taylor. He was in full
regalia--leather helmet, heavy leather belt, long-tailed coat, and in his
free hand the chased silver speaking trumpet with the red tassels that
usually hung on the wall. He was in his glory, dominating the horde. His
keen eye, roving everywhere, seeing everything, saw Keith.

"Catch hold!" he roared through the trumpet.

Keith made a flying grab at a vacant place on the line, caught it, was
almost jerked from his feet, recovered himself, and charged on, yelling
like the rest.

But now Bert Taylor began to shriek something excitedly. It became evident,
from glimpses caught down the side streets, but especially through the many
vacant lots, that another engine was paralleling their own course a block
away.

"Jump her, boys, jump her!" shrieked Bert Taylor. "For God's sake, don't
let those Eurekas beat you!"

He danced about on top of the waterbox of the engine, in imminent peril of
being jerked from his place, battering his silver trumpet insanely against
the brake rods, beseeching, threatening profanely. And profanity at that