thing strange and solemn about an engine-house at night,
like the stillness of a church or the hush of a drowsing menagerie. You
are filled with a sense of impending danger, which is symbolized
everywhere: in the boots ranged at bunk-sides of sighing sleepers, in
the brass columns, smooth as glass, that reach up through manholes in
the floor, and at which the fire crew leap, half drunk with fatigue; in
the engine, purring at the double doors (steam always at 25 in the
boiler), with tongues and harness lifted for the spring; in the big gong
which watches under the clock (and the clock watches, too), a tireless
yellow eye, that seems to be ever saying, "Shall I strike? Shall I
strike?" And the clock ticks back, "Wait, wait," or "Now, now." That is
what you feel chiefly in an engine-house at night--the intense, quiet
watchfulness. Even the horses seem to be watching with the corner of an
eye as they munch their feed.

[Illustration: A RESCUE FROM A FIFTH STORY.]

I counsel a man, perhaps a woman, weary of the old evening things, the
stupid show, the trivial talk, the laughter without mirth, the suppers
without nourishment, to try an hour or two at an engine-house, making
friends with the fireman on guard (it may be the driver of a chief, as
happened to me), and see if he doesn't walk back home with a gladder
heart and a better opinion of his fellows. I fancy some of our
reformers, even, might visit an engine-house with profit, and learn to
dwell occasionally on the _good_ that is in our cities and learn
something about fighting without bluster and without ever letting up.

It was a tall, loose-jointed fellow I met at the Elm Street station, a
typical down-easter, who had wandered over the world and finally settled
down as driver of the nervous little wagon that carries Chief Ahearn, a
daring man and famous, in his dashes from fire to fire over the city. In
these days of idol-breaking it is good to see such hero worship as one
finds here for all men who deserve it, whether in humble station or near
the top, like this wiry little chief, asleep now up-stairs against the
night's emergencies. Ask any fireman in New York to tell you about
Ahearn, and you'll find there is one business where jealousy doesn't
rule. Ahearn? What do they think of Ahearn? Why, he's a wonder, sir;
he's the dandiest man. Say, did ye ever hear how he crawled under that
blazing naphtha tank and got a man out who was in there unconscious?
They gave him t