“How far is it?”

“Oh, not too far,” Allan replied, optimistically, and Kirk hopefully followed him.

But at the opposite side of the square they were halted by a sudden commotion which drove all thoughts of food out of their minds.  From a building across the street issued a bugle-call, upon which an indescribable confusion broke forth.  Men began running to and fro; a voice in authority shouted orders, each of which was the signal for another bugle-call.  Through the wide-open doors the Panamanians could be seen, scurrying around a hose-cart, apparently in search of clothes; some were struggling into red shirts, others were stamping their feet into short boots or girding themselves with wide canvas belts.  Meanwhile, the chief issued more orders and the bugle continued to blow.

“Oh, look, boss!” Allan cried, quickly.  “There must be a ’flagration.”

“It’s a Spiggoty hose company, as I live.  Come on!”

Already a glare could be seen above the crowded portion of the city, and the two set off in that direction at a run, leaving the bugle sounding in the rear and the gallant firemen still wrestling with their uniforms.  They had nearly reached the fire when around a corner back of them, with frightful speed and clangor, came a modern automobile fire-truck, clinging to which was a swarm of little brown men in red shirts and helmets.  They reminded the American of monkeys on a circus horse, and, although he had been counted a reckless driver, he exclaimed in astonishment at the daring way in which the chauffeur took the turn.

It was truly amazing, for the machine, which was the latest improvement in imported fire-fighting machinery, skidded the full width of the street, threatening to rip its tires off and turn turtle, then leaped upon the curb before its driver could straighten it up, and in a magnificent sweep carried away the wooden supports of an overhanging balcony.  The timbers parted like straws; there came a shrill uproar from inside the building as the sleeping occupants poured forth, but without a pause the Yankee machine whizzed on up the street, its gong clanging, its occupants holding on for dear life, the peaceful inhabitants of Colon fleeing from its path like quail before the hoofs of a runaway horse.

“Hit her up!” Kirk yelled, delightedly, then leaned against a lamp-post and laughed until he was weak.  In the midst of his merriment appeared the company he had just seen making up.  They had found their uniforms at last, it seemed, down to the final belt and shoelace, and now came charging gallantly along in the tracks of the more speedy motor.  They were drawing their hand-reel, each brave lad tugging lustily and panting with fatigue.

Kirk and his guide fell in behind and jogged to the scene of the conflagration.