Monumental engine house. What do you say?"

"I should like nothing better!" cried Keith.

"Your wife's illness is not likely to require immediate attendance?"
suggested Sherwood inquiringly.

"She's only seasick--horrible voyage--she's always under the weather on
shipboard--three weeks of it from Panama--Nan's as strong as a horse,"
replied Keith, with obvious impatience.

They walked across the Plaza to the Monumental fire engine house, a square
brick structure of two stories, with wide folding doors, and a bell cupola
apart. Keith paused to admire the engine. It was of the type usual in those
days, consisting of a waterbox with inlet and outlet connections, a pump
atop, and parallel pump rails on either side, by the hand manipulation of
which the water was thrown with force from the box. The vehicle was drawn
by means of a long rope, carried on a drum. This could be slacked off at
need to accommodate as high as a hundred men or as few as would suffice to
move her. So far this engine differed in no manner from those Keith had
seen in the East. But this machine belonged to a volunteer company, one of
many and all rivals. It was gayly coloured. On the sides of its waterbox
were scenic paintings of some little merit. The woodwork was all mahogany.
Its brass ornamentation was heavy and brought to a high state of polish.
From a light rack along its centre dangled two beautifully chased speaking
trumpets, and a row of heavy red-leather helmets. Axes nestled in sockets.
A screaming gilt eagle, with wings outspread, hovered atop. Alongside the
engine stood the hook and ladder truck and the hose cart. These smaller and
less important vehicles were painted in the same scheme of colour, were
equally glittering and polished. Keith commented on all this admiringly.