ton Street. This was the day when
innocent, wholesome chlorate of potash (excellent for colds) showed what
it can do when you take it by the ton with a pinch of fire. This was the
day of the great explosions, when it rained red-hot stones and blazing
timbers, when whole blocks of lower Manhattan shivered with the
concussion. This was Tarrant's day, October 29, 1900.

It all started smoothly enough, with brass gongs tapping out deliberate
62's, at which the big horses in most engine-houses stamped their
displeasure, for 62 meant nothing to them--at least not on the first
call. But it was great business for Harry and Nigger and Baby, the two
blacks and the gray that pull old 29, and there they were at the first
tap, breasting the rubber-bound stall chains as if to hurry up laggard
electricity, which presently shot its sparks and loosed their
fastenings.

Now, down drop the stall chains, and the horses, pounding over the
tiles, crowd up three abreast ahead of the engine. Down drop the crew,
silently, swiftly, sliding from ceiling to floor like so many
blue-shirted ghosts. And click, click, its traces up and collars off the
frames, and snap, snap, until the last hook holds.

"H'm," says Baby, as the thick wheels start, "six seconds; might have
been worse."

"We'll strike the curb in eight and a half!" snorts Nigger, as the doors
swing wide and they bang into Chambers Street.

Out into Chambers Street they go, with Johnnie Marks driving and Bill
Brown jamming blazing waste into her fire-box, where wood and oil do the
rest. On the back steps rides Captain Devanny, steadying himself by the
coal-box, scowling under his helmet, and jerking fast on the alarm-cord
as they swing into Greenwich Street. There is the fire just ahead,
corner of Warren Street, nasty black smoke choking back the crowd. And
here comes the hose-wagon, clanging and rumbling at their heels.

"It's first water for us, Bill," said Devanny.

"There's drugs and stuff in there," said Bill.

Then they fell to work--as firemen do.

"When the first explosion came," said Captain Devanny, telling the story
weeks afterward, "I was inside the building, up one flight, at the
bottom of a well of fire. McArthur and Buckley were with me, playing a
stiff stream to protect the back windows. There's where people in the
building had to run to, men and girls; we could see 'em crowding on the
balconies over Bishop's Alley, and we wanted to give 'em a chance on the
fire