“Look at me!” he yelled, his voice cracking into a squall.  “Look at me and remember them that’s dead and gone, your fathers and your grands’rs, whose old fists used to grip them bars right where you’ve got your hands.  Think of ’em, and then set your teeth and yank the ‘tarnal daylights out of her.  Are ye goin’ to let me stand here—­me that has seen your grands’rs pump—­and have it said that old Niag’ry was licked by a passul of knittin’-work old-maids, led by an elephant and a peep-show man?  Be ye goin’ to let ’em outsquirt ye?  Why, the wimmen-folks of Vienny will put p’isen in your biscuits if you go home beat by anything that Smyrna can turn out.  Git a-holt them bars!  Clench your chaws!  Now, damye, ye toggle-j’inted, dough-fingered, wall-eyed sons of sea-cooks, give her tar—­give—­her—­tar!”

It was the old-fashioned style of exordium by an old-fashioned foreman, who believed that the best results could be obtained by the most scurrilous abuse of his men—­and the immediate efforts of Vienna seemed to endorse his opinion.

With the foreman marking time with “Hoomp!—­hoomp!” they began to surge at the bars, arms interlaced, hands, brown and gristly, covering the leather from end to end.  The long, snaking hose filled and plumped out with snappings.

Uncle Trufant flung his hat afar, doubled forward, and with white hair bristling on his head began to curse horribly.  Occasionally he rapped at a laggard with his cane.  Then, like an insane orchestra-leader, he sliced the air about his head and launched fresh volleys of picturesque profanity.

Old Niagara rocked and danced.  The four hosemen staggered as the stream ripped from the nozzle, crackling like pistol discharges.  There was no question as to Uncle Trufant’s ability to get the most out of the ancient pride of Vienna.  He knew Niagara’s resources.

“Ease her!” he screamed, after the first dizzy staccato of the beams.  “Ease her!  Steady!  Get your motion!  Up—­down!  Up—­down!  Get your motion!  Take holt of her!  Lift her!  Now—­now—­now! For the last ounce of wickin’ that’s in ye!  Give her—­hell!”

It was the crucial effort.  Men flung themselves at the beams.  Legs flapped like garments on a clothes-line in a crazy gale.  And when Uncle Trufant clashed the bell they staggered away, one by one, and fell upon the grass of the square.

“A hundred and seventeen feet, eight inches and one-half!” came the yell down the line, and at the word Vienna rose on her elbows and bawled hoarse cheers.

The cheer was echoed tumultuously, for every man in the crowd of spectators knew that this was full twenty feet better than the record score of all musters—­made by Smyrna two years before, with wind and all conditions favoring.

“That’s what old times and old-fashioned cussin’ can do for ye,” declared Uncle Trufant.

A man—­a short, squat man in a blue coat—­came pelting down the street from the direction of the judges.  It was Cap’n Aaron Sproul.  People got out of his way when they got a glimpse of the fury on his face.  He tore into the press of Smyrna fire-fighters, who were massed about Hecla, their faces downcast at announcement of this astonishing squirt.