clung to each other, weak with mirth.

For the Monumental was "washed," and washed aplenty. This was natural, for
now the water was pouring into her box from _both_ directions, and would
continue so to pour until the hose coupled to Ward's engine had burned
through. The water was fairly spouting up from the box, not merely
overflowing. Her crew were still working, but raggedly and dispiritedly.
Bert Taylor, his trumpet battered beyond all recognition, was fairly
voiceless with rage. An interested and ribaldry facetious crowd spared not
its sarcasm.

"My crowd must be in the same fix!" gurgled Ward; "the back pressure has
'washed' them, too." Then the full splendour of the situation burst on him,
and he fell again on Munro for support.

"Don't you see," he gasped. "They'll never know! The hose will burn
through. Unless we tell, they'll never know! We've got even, all right."

At this moment Duane rode up, foaming at the mouth, and desiring to know
what the assorted adjectives they were doing there. The crews awoke to
their isolation and general uselessness. Bert Taylor, still simmering,
descended from his perch. They followed the hose lines to glowing coals!

"Here, this won't do," said Talbot; so they reported themselves before the
news of a tragedy had had time to spread.

The fire was now practically under control. It had swept a city block
pretty clean, but had been confined to that area. An hour later they
dragged their engine rather dispiritedly back to the house. Ordinarily they
would have been in high spirits. Fires were to these men a good deal of a