one could remember a time
when Old Silver had not been on the nigh side of the poles. Mikes and
Petes and Jims there had been without number. Some were good and some
were bad, some had lasted years and some only months, some had been kind
and some ugly, some stupid and some clever; but there had been but one
Silver, who had combined all their good traits as well as many of their
bad ones.

Horses and men, Silver had seen them come and go. He had seen
probationers rise step by step to battalion and deputy chiefs, win
shields and promotion or meet the sudden fate that is their lot. All
that time Silver's name-board had swung over his old stall, and when the
truck went out Silver was to be found in his old place on the left of
the poles. Driver succeeded driver, but one and all they found Silver
first under the harness when a station hit, first to jump forward when
the big doors rolled back, and always as ready to do his bit on a long
run as he was to demand his four quarts when feeding-time came.

Before the days of the Training Stable, where now they try out new
material, Silver came into the service. That excellent institution,
therefore, cannot claim the credit of his selection. Perhaps he was
chosen by some shrewd old captain, who knew a fire-horse when he saw
one, even in the raw; perhaps it was only a happy chance which put him
in the business. At any rate, his training was the work of a master
hand.

Silver was not one of the fretting kind, so at the age of fifteen he was
apple-round, his legs were straight and springy, and his eyes as full
and bright as those of a school-boy at a circus. The dapples on his gray
flanks were as distinct as the under markings on old velours, while his
tail had the crisp whiteness of a polished steel bit on a frosty
morning. Unless you had seen how shallow were his molar cups or noted
the length of his bridle teeth, would you have guessed him not more than
six.

As for the education of Silver, its scope and completeness, no outsider
would have given credence to the half of it. When Lannigan had driven
the truck for three years, and had been cronies with Silver for nearly
five, it was his habit to say, wonderingly:

"He beats me, Old Silver does. I git onto some new wrinkle of his every
day. No; 'taint no sorter use to tell his tricks; you wouldn't believe,
nor would I an' I hadn't seen with me two eyes."

In the way of mischief Silver was a star performer. What other
fire-hor