The old graybeard
suddenly ceased crying "maji," and darted forward to where I stood on
the bale of cotton. With great but somewhat flurried respect he begged
me to descend. I did so, somewhat curious as to what he might be up to,
for the cotton was at least two hundred feet from the fire. Immediately
he began to tug and heave; the bale was almost beyond his strength; but
after incredible exertions he lifted one side of it, poised it for a
moment, got his shoulder under it, and rolled it over once. Then he
darted away and resumed his raucous cry for water. I climbed back again.
Thrice more, at intervals, he repeated this performance. The only result
was to daub with mud every possible side of that bale. I hope it was his
property.
You must remember that I was observing the heavy artillery of the attack
on the conflagration. Individual campaigns were everywhere in progress.
I saw one man standing on the roof of a threatened building. He lowered
slowly, hand over hand, a small tea-kettle at the end of a string. This
was filled by a friend in the street, whereupon the man hauled it up
again, slowly, hand over hand, and solemnly dashed its contents into the
mouth of the furnace. Thousands of other men on roofs, in balconies, on
the street, were doing the same thing. Some had ordinary cups which they
filled a block away! The limit of efficiency was a pail. Nobody did
anything in concert with anybody else.
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