from the sucking draft of the flames

  Murphy extracted a coin from his pocket, and Huggins opened the fireplace door for light. There were to be no tricks in this toss. Three bullets thudded into the metal about them, but Murphy and his fireman were intent on a falling copper.   Huggins pulled his shirt back from the sucking draft of the flames. "'Eads!" he called.   The coin rattled to the floor and both men dropped to their knees. Another rifle tried for them.   "An' 'eads it is. I st'ys. Any'ow, it's warmer 'ere. Blimey, if them pants o' mine wasn't somethink to blow about after all. Sometimes it's the wind, then it's the bloomin' fire. I'll keep a bit o' steam up; looks as if I'll maybe need a bath when I get 'ome. S'long, ole sport! Tell Miss Tressa--" He broke into a convulsive chuckle, which another burst of rifle fire tried to interrupt. "Cripes! Wouldn't I 'a' been a d'isy for rescuin' lidies? Not 'arf!"   The farewell of the two men who ceaselessly fought and loved each other was nothing more than a pat on the back, Murphy's the more exuberant because it smacked louder on the thin shirt of the fireman. Then the latter was alone. "Mollie sends 'er love," he called into the darkness after the engineer.   For several minutes Huggins searched the tender for a comfortable spot for his unprotected body, but scratchy, knobby pieces of wood, with a foundation of sharp chunks of coal, was not conducive to rest. A bullet rattling against the engine added to his irritation, and he looked over the edge and fired his revolver petulantly.   "That'll larn 'em I'm no blinkin' Irishman with a stick."