"There, I told you something would happen!"
"I should say it has!" declared Mr. Ringold, for once agreeing with the gloomy actor.
A few more strokes of the pump handles, a few more gallons of water, and the fire, which had quickly attacked all parts of the cottage at once, died out.
"There!" cried Abe Haskill, the old fisherman-chief. "We saved your building for ye, Mr. Ringold. Ain't no use in buyin' a shack an' then havin' it burn down—no matter if it ain't wuth much. We saved her for you, though at one time it looked pretty dubious. This is the first fire we've had in some time, an' I reckon we got a bit rusty.
"I might add," he went on, "that it's customary, in cases where a volunteer department saves a buildin' from destruction—it's customary, I say, for the owner to donate a leetle suthin' to the department. In this case, seein' as how Jim Belton sold his shack to you—why, you're the owner. And, as I say, we saved her for you!" he concluded, proudly.
"Yes, I see you did," remarked Mr. Ringold, dubiously. "Now I've got to buy another, and burn that down, for this play is spoiled."
"What! Did you want her to burn?" asked
