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