The Ever Unpractical Feminine It was an investigating negro child of tender years， who， possessed of a petty sense of cause and effect， brought an illuminative simplicity to bear upon the problem of the force-pump； and a multitudinous agitation greeted his discovery that the engineers had forgotten to connect their pipes with the river.
This na媣e omission was fatal to the second warehouse； the wall burst into flame below Crailey Gray， who clung to the top of the ladder， choking， stifled， and dizzily fighting the sparks that covered him， yet still clutching the nozzle of the hose-line they had passed to him. When the stream at last leaped forth， making the nozzle fight in his grasp， he sent it straight up into the air and let the cataract fall back upon himself and upon the two men beneath him on the ladder.
There came a moment of blessed relief； and he looked out over the broad rosy blur of faces in the street， where no one wondered more than he how the water was to reach the roof. Suddenly he started， wiped his eyes with his wet sleeve， and peered intently down from under the shading arm. His roving glance crossed the smoke and flame to rest upon a tall， white figure that stood， full-length above the heads of the people， upon a pedestal wrought with the grotesque images of boys： a girl's figure， still as noon， enrapt， like the statue of some young goddess for whom were made these sacrificial pyres. Mr. Gray recognized his opportunity.
A blackened and unrecognizable face peered down from the eaves， and the voice belonging to it said， angrily： "Why didn't they send up that line before they put the water through it？"
"Never mind， Tom，" answered Crailey cheerfully， "I'll bring it up."
"You can't； I'll come down for it. Don't be every kind of a fool！"
"You want a monopoly， do you？" And Crailey， calling to Tappingham Marsh， next below him， to come higher， left the writhing nozzle in the latter's possession， swung himself out upon the grappling-ladder， imitating the chief's gymnastics， and immediately， one hand grasping the second rung， one knee crooked over the lowest， leaned head down and took the nozzle from Marsh. It was a heavy weight， and though Marsh supported the line beneath it， the great stream hurtling forth made it a difficult thing to manage， for it wriggled， recoiled and struggled as if it had been alive.
Crailey made three attempts to draw himself up； but the strain was too much for his grip， and on the third attempt his fingers melted from the rung， and he swung down fearfully， hanging by his knee， but still clinging to the nozzle.
"Give it up， Crailey； it isn't worth it，" Vanrevel called from overhead， not daring the weight of both on the light grappling-ladder.
But though Crailey cared no more for the saving of Robert Carewe's property than for a butterfly's wing in China， he could not give up now， any more than as a lad be could have forborne to turn somersaults when the prettiest little girl looked out of the school-house window. He passed the nozzle to Tappingham， caught the second rung with his left hand， and， once more hanging head downward， seized the nozzle； then， with his knee hooked tight， as the gushing water described a huge semicircle upon the smoke and hot vapor， he made a mad lurch through the air， while women shrieked； but he landed upright， half-sitting on the lowest rung. He climbed the grappling-ladder swiftly， in spite of the weight and contortions of the unmanageable beast he carried with him； Tom leaned far down and took it from him； and Crailey， passing the eaves， fell， exhausted， upon the roof.
Just as he reached this temporary security， a lady was borne， fainting， out of the acclaiming crowd. Fanchon was there.
Word had been passed to the gentlemen of the "Engine Company" to shut off the water in order to allow the line to be carried up the ladder， and they received the command at the moment Tom lifted the nozzle， so that the stream dried up in his hands. This was the last straw， and the blackened， singed and scarred chief， setting the trumpet to his lips， gave himself entirely to wrath.
It struck Crailey， even as be lay， coughing and weeping with smoke， that there was something splendid and large in the other's rage. Vanrevel was ordinarily so steady and cool that this was worth seeing， this berserker gesture； worth hearing， this wonderful profanity， like Washington's one fit of cursing； and Crailey， knowing Tom， knew， too， that it had not come upon him because Carewe had a daughter into whose eyes Tom had looked； nor did he rage because he believed that Crailey's life and his were in the greater hazard for the lack of every drop of water that should have issued from the empty nozzle. Their lungs were burdened with smoke， while the intolerable smarting of throat， eyes， and nostrils was like the incision of a thousand needles in the membranes； their clothes were luminous with glowing circles where the sparks were eating； the blaze widened on the wall beneath them， and Marsh was shouting hoarsely that he could no longer hold his position on the ladder； yet Crailey knew that none of this was in Tom's mind as he stood， scorched， blistered， and haggard， on the edge of the roof， shaking his fist at the world. It was because his chance of saving the property of a man he despised was being endangered.
Crailey stretched forth a hand and touched his friend's knee. "Your side of the conversation is a trifle loud， Tom，" he said. "Miss Carewe is down there， across the street， on a pile of boxes."
Tom stopped in the middle of a word， for which he may have received but half a black stroke from the recording angel. He wheeled toward the street， and， shielding his inflamed eyes with his hand， gazed downward in a stricken silence. From that moment Mr. Vanrevel's instructions to his followers were of a decorum at which not the meekest Sunday-school scholar dare have cavilled.
