e day the doctor ordered! Hooray!"

Osterhaut had a gift of being able to do two things at one time. Nothing
prevented him from talking, and though it had probably never been
tested, it is quite certain he could have talked under water. His words
had been addressed to Jowett, who drew to him on all great occasions
like the drafts of a regiment to the main body. Jowett was often very
critical of Osterhaut's acts, words and views, but on this occasion they
were of one mind.

"I guess it's Ingolby's day all right," answered Jowett. "When you say
'Hooray!' Osterhaut, I agree, but you've got better breath'n I have.
I can't talk like I used to, but I'm going to ride that fire-engine to
save the old Monseenoor's church--or bust."

Both Jowett and Osterhaut belonged to the Lebanon fire-brigade, which
was composed of only a few permanent professionals, helped by capable
amateurs. The two cronies had their way, and a few moments later,
wearing brass helmets, they were away with the engine and the hose,
leaving the less rapid members of the brigade to follow with the
ladders.

"What did the Chief do?" asked Osterhaut. "Did you see what happened to
him?"

Jowett snorted. "What do you think Mr. Max Ingolby, Esquire, would do?
He commandeered my sulky and that rawbone I bought from the Reverend
Tripple, and away he went like greased lightning over the bridge. I
don't know why I drove that trotter to-day, nor why I went on that
sulky, for I couldn't hear good where I was, on the outskirts of the
meeting; but I done it like as if the Lord had told me. The Chief
spotted me soon as the fire-bell rung. In a second he bundled me off,
straddled the sulky, and was away 'fore you could say snakes."

"I don't believe he's strong enough for all this. He ain't got back to
where he was before the war," remarked Osterhaut sagely.

"War--that business at Barbazon's! You call that war! It wasn't war,"
declared Jowett spasmodically, grasping the rail of the fire-engine
as the wheel struck a stone and nearly shot them from their seats. "It
wasn't war. It was terrible low-down treachery. That Gipsy gent, Fawe,
pulled the lever, but Marchand built the scaffold."

"Heard anything more about Marchand--where he is?" asked Osterhaut, as
the hoofs of the horses clattered on the bridge.

"Yes, I've heard--there's news," responded Jowett. "He's been lying
drunk at Gautry's caboose ever since yesterday morning at five o'clock,
when he got off the Wes