“As for instance,” said Bill, and he roared out—­

“Ho, aboard the Salt Junk Sarah,
Rollin’ home across the line,
The Bo’sun collared the Captain’s hat
And threw it in the brine. 
Rollin’ home, rollin’ home,
Rollin’ home across the foam,
The Captain sat without a hat
The whole way rollin’ home.”

Entertaining themselves in this way as they strolled along, they were presently arrested by shouts of “Fire!  Fire!” and a Fireman in a large helmet came bolting down the road, pulling a fire hose behind him.

“Aha!” said Bill.  “Now we shall have the awe-inspirin’ spectacle of a fire to entertain us,” and, accosting the Fireman, he demanded to know where the fire was.

“The fact is,” said the Fireman, “that owing to the size of this helmet I can’t see where it is; but if you will kindly glance at the surrounding district, you’ll see it about somewhere.”

They glanced about and, sure enough, there was a fire burning in the next field.  It was only a cowshed, certainly, but it was blazing very nicely, and well worth looking at.

“Fire,” said Bill, “in the form of a common cowshed, is burnin’ about nor’-nor’-east as the crow flies.”

“In that case,” said the Fireman, “I invite all present to bravely assist in putting it out.  But,” he added impressively, “if you’ll take my advice, you’ll shove that Puddin’ in this hollow log and roll a stone agen the end to keep him in, for if he gets too near the flames he’ll be cooked again and have his flavour ruined.”

“This is a very sensible feller,” said Bill, and though Puddin’ objected strongly, he was at once pushed into a log and securely fastened in with a large stone.

“How’d you like to be shoved in a blooming log,” he shouted at Bill, “when you was burning with anxiety to see the fire?” but Bill said severely, “Be sensible, Albert, fires is too dangerous to Puddins’ flavours.”

No more time was lost in seizing the hose and they set off with the greatest enthusiasm.  For, as everyone knows, running with the reel is one of the grand joys of being a fireman.  They had the hose fixed to a garden tap in no time, and soon were all hard at work, putting out the fire.

Of course there was a great deal of smoke and shouting, and getting tripped up by the hose, and it was by the merest chance Bunyip Bluegum glanced back in time to see the Wombat in the act of stealing the Puddin’ from the hollow log.

“Treachery is at work,” he shouted.

“Treachery,” roared Bill, and with one blow on the snout knocked the Fireman endways on into the burning cinders, where his helmet fell off, and exposed the countenance of that snooting, snouting scoundrel, the Possum.

The Possum, of course, hadn’t expected to have his disguise pierced so swiftly, and, though he managed to scramble out of the fire in time to save his bacon, he was considerably singed down the back.