Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

788 Two minutes passed. McQuire’s column dropped short of the flame. “Got to get by you!” he shouted up, “this here pressure’s too low.” “Stay where you're at!” Sullivan. A teetering wall cut short the dispute for a moment. The fire-escape lurched in, righted, and swung out. “Leave me past!’ McQuire edged up to Sullivan’s foot. “ T’ll step on you!” There was a wheeze, some sharp words broke across the wind, and Captain Mike McQuire went aloft, passing Stone Age Sullivan on the narrow iron stair. Sullivan swung his nozzle, catching the captain of Thirty-Two in the chest. McQuire pro- testing that he hated back numbers, dropped his own brass hand grips and charged the man who refused him room. answered Til. Down in the snow the last of the twenty firemen had turned their backs, running toward the stalled engines, after another line of hose. The ground was deserted; yellow smoke billowed up from the slow burning hides! flames mounted higher. Sullivan fought with the will that carried him through forty years of flame and smoke, but McQuire was younger; cold rage battled on his side. It was a short fight. McQuire set his jaw contemptuously, picked up his hose and went aloft. Stone Age Sullivan, minus his usually reliable breath, propped back on the fire-escape and gasped accusing words derisively at himself. His nozzle flopped idly at his left elbow, his eyes pinched shut, and five hundred gallons a minute of good, wet water missed its mark and played wantonly and wastefully upon the snow. ‘““Me measly hand!”’ he growled at last, and shook himself into action. ‘“‘I’d ’ve pitched him on the ground!” He tilted up the stream and went back to the fight. Slowly, he aimed at the win- dow, missed, aimed again, and saw the stream push back the flames. Treading the heels of the man who had thrashed him, he went up another step. ~ and windows. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Out of the way!” he ordered. “Stay down, old timer, you'll get hurt again.” Mike McQuire was almost good hu- mored. He slashed water at roof and wall “You've got power to throw from where you're at!” ‘Never mind what I’ve got. When we - git down I'll spile you!” ‘When we’re done I’ll tend you myself!” answered McQuire, and they returned to their duties. The window blackened. Close together, the two men moved toward it. For a mom- ent McQuire squirted his insufficient stream into the neighboring window at the left. Sullivan held his own nozzle steady—he had a vantage point here; he could rain in all the water Ike Razmus sent up. The fire- escape began to feel hot through his leather gauntlets. It burned his right arm—cold, heat or pain—which was it? Hugging the injured hand tight against his chest, Stone Age Sullivan felt a quick, bestial rage at his biting horse. He wormed a step up- ward, trying to look for his bloody glove. A wave of hot air belched out of the ware- house window. Stone Age Sullivan settled back to work. It was not his hand that made him sick—it was this unholy smell. More cries came up from below. Malone was shouting. Sullivan recognized his voice. Engine Ten was getting its second line around to the rear—that would make it better! His ears deafened with the roar of the rafters crashing near at hand. He became suddenly sleepy. Mike McQuire, looking below, saw his tough old enemy captain of Ten stand up involuntarily, sway, lean toward the building, then to the outer rail. McQuire dropped his nozzle and slid back six steps. He collared the rounded should- ers between his arms and held hard. ‘“ Leave me go!” Sullivan growled epithets that only very old and very experienced firemen know, hot, lacing words that are born of smoke and flame. “Shut up, you pensioner!” growled McQuire. ‘Lord! Wall’s going!” He knew the sway, the rumble within, the trembling underfoot that told of a brick wall settling from its foundations. He GomiGcsdooks: (S@)