Ring Lardner

The Tennessean/July 6, 1924

To the Editor: I won’t give no hint as to the identity of the town where the scene of this little article is laid only to say that it is a suburb of the largest city east of Green River, Wyoming, and can be reached by motor from the midst of the large city referred to in 35 minutes.

Well, like practically every town of a population of 12 and upwards this town has got a fire department and like a whole lot of them, this fire department is what is known as a volunteer fire department which means that the members ain’t supposed to get nothing but glory. Well, they’s a man living in this town who is in the theatrical business in one way and another and one day the chief of the fire department asked him would he join the fire department and he says yes on account of being public spirited. So he bought himself a rubber coat and a helmet and a pair of rubber boots and staid home several nights with the windows open so as he would be sure and hear what is known in the town as the sireen.

Well, the sireen did not blow and did not blow and finely our hero, who we will call Mr. Klott, received a card saying they would be a meeting of the department at the fire house the following night and would he please try and attend. The department meets once ever two weeks to disgust prohibition. Well, Mr. Kloot attended the meeting and pretty near all the members was there and he knowed the most of them. The chief is a building contractor and the assistant chief is the town’s most prominent plumber. Others who he recognized was all well known citizens in various walks of life. Amongst them was a dentist, the superintendent of the gas company, a plasterer, a painter, a mason, a paper hanger, an insurance man and etc.

Well, they set around the whole evening and disgusted prohibition and the sireen did not blow, but the meeting could not of been adjourned more than five or ten minutes when it did blow and the firemen rushed back to the fire house and clumb aboard the three vehicles with which the dept. is equipped.

Mr. Kloot happened to board the same vehicle as the chief and the both of them was right close to the driver. “Whose place is it?” shouted the chief as the vehicle tore recklessly down—boulevard. “L. M. Taylor’s,” the driver shouted back. L. M. Taylor being the town’s millionaire, worth more than $150,000. “Well, what’s your hurry?” shouted the chief and the driver slowed down a little, while Mr. Kloot did not know what to think.

Well, they got to the fire and it did not look like a very big fire for such a big house and in fact Mr. Taylor’s Chinese help had just about put it out with the aid of a few seltzer bottles, but the fire department seemed to think the danger was nowheres near over and while some of them connected a couple of sections of those with the nearest hydrants, others entered the house through the front and back doors and up ladders through the 2d story windows and begin wielding their axes vs. walls, closets and etc. to see if maybe there wasn’t some concealed tongues of flame that would burst forth after the family had went back to sleep. One stream of water was turned on the entire upstairs and another on the ground floor and in a few minutes the family and the servants and the firemen moving hither and thither was instinctively shouting ship ahoy.

Mr. Kloot strayed into the bathroom and found the asst. chief cutting holes in different pipes. “Safety first,” said the asst. chief. “Many a home has burned to the ground on account of hidden flames in the plumbing.” Mr. Kloot walked into a master bedroom on the second floor and seen two firemen with axes excavating the floor. “Safety first,” said one of them. “If we should all half to go downstairs in a hurry, they’d be a panic on the stairs so it is best to have a place big enough to drop through.”

Mr. Kloot encountered Mr. Taylor, the owner of the house. A couple of firemen was talking to him. “Was you covered by insurance?” asked one of them. “Not fully,” says Mr. Taylor. “Well,” says the fireman, “this should ought to learn you a lesson.”

“This fire,” said the other fireman to Taylor, “was caused by defective wiring. If you would use gas for light a thing like this could not happen.”

Mr. Kloot next met Mrs. Taylor and her two kids in company with still another fireman. The lady and the kids was opened mouthed with horror, and the fireman was looking into their mouths. “Madam,” he says, “you have got a advanced case of pyorrhea and your kids has got cavities that makes the grand canyon look like a dimple. It is a good thing I happened to drop in.”

In the early hours of the morning the firemen decided they was nothing more to be done and left what might now be laughingly referred to as the house. Mr. Kloot was the last to leave and Mr. Taylor accompanied him to what had formerly been the front door.

“I feel like I had been giving a oldfashioned at home,” said Mr. Taylor and pulled out of his pocket a small pack of cards, the business cards of the town’s volunteer fire dept.

Next morning Mr. Kloot called up the chief and submitted his resignation.

“But what’s the idear?” asked the chief.

“Nothing special,” replied Mr. Kloot, “only that I’m in the theatrical business.”