"D'you kape turpentine?" said Matty, as they were about to quit the shop.

Boone started, and said almost testily, "No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

"Sure, there's no sin in askin'," replied Matty in surprise at the man's changed manner.

"Of course—of course not," rejoined Boone with a slight look of confusion, as he made a sudden assault with his pocket-handkerchief on the cat, which was sleeping innocently in the window; "git out o' that, you brute; you're always agoin' in the winder, capsizin' things. There! you've been an' sat on the face o' that 'ere wax doll till you've a'most melted it. Out o' that with you! No, Miss Merryon," he added, turning to the girl with his wonted urbanity, "I don't keep turpentine, and I was only surprised you should ask for it in a toy-shop; but you'll get it of Mr White next door. I don't believe there's anythink in the world as he can't supply to his customers."

David Boone bowed them out, and then re-entered the back-shop, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"I don't like it—I don't even like to think of it, Gorman," he said to a big low-browed man who sat smoking his pipe beside the little fireplace, the fire in which was so small that its smoke scarcely equalled in volume that of the pipe he smoked: "No, I don't like it, and I won't do it."

"Well, well, you can please yourself," said Gorman, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and placing it in his vest pocket as he rose and buttoned his thick pea-jacket up to the chin; "but I'll tell you what it is, if you are a descendant of the hunter of the far west that you boast so much about, it's precious little of his pluck that you've got; an' so I tell 'ee to your face, David Boone. All I've got to say is, that you'd better be wise and take my advice, and think better of it."

So saying, Gorman went out, and slammed the door after him.

Meanwhile, Miss Matty Merryon, having purchased a small phial of turpentine, returned to Number 6, and ushered Willie Willders into the presence of her mistress.

Miss Emelina Tippet was neither tall nor stiff, nor angular nor bony; on the contrary, she was little and plump, and not bad-looking. And people often wondered why Miss Tippet was Miss Tippet and was not Mrs Somebody-else. Whatever the reason was, Miss Tippet never divulged it, so we won't speculate about it here.

"A note, boy, from Mr Auberly?" exclaimed Miss Tippet, with a beaming smile; "give it me—thank you."

She opened it and read attentively, while Master Willie glanced round the parlour and took mental notes. Miss Emma Ward sat down on a stool in the window, ostensibly to "do sums," but really to draw faces, all of which bore a strong caricatured resemblance to Willie, at whom she glanced slyly over the top of her slate.

Matty remained standing at the door to hear what the note was about. She did not pretend to busy herself about anything. There was no subterfuge in Matty. She had been Miss Tippet's confidential servant before entering the service of Mr Auberly, and her extremely short stay in Beverly Square had not altered that condition. She had come to feel that she had a right to know all Miss Tippet's affairs, and so waited for information.

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, still reading, "yes; 'get him a situation in your brother's office,' (oh, certainly, I'll be sure to get that); 'he seems smart, I might almost say impu—' Ahem! Yes, well—."

"Boy," said Miss Tippet, turning suddenly to Willie, "your name is William Willders, I believe?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, William, Mr Auberly, my relative, asks me to get you into my brother's—my brother's, what's 'is name—office. Of course, I shall be happy to try. I am always extremely happy to do anything for—yes, I suppose of course you can write, and, what d'ye call it—count—you can do arithmetic?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Willie.

"And you can spell—eh? I hope you can spell, Edward, a—I mean Thomas—is it, or William?"

Miss Tippet looked at Willie so earnestly and put this question in tones so solemn that he was much impressed, and felt as if all his earthly hopes hung on his reply, so he admitted that he could spell.

"Good," continued Miss Tippet. "You are, I suppose, in rather poor circumstances. Is your father poor?"

"He's dead, ma'am; was drowned."

"Oh! shocking, that's very sad. Was your mother drowned, too?"

"No, ma'am, she's alive and well—at least she's well for her, but she an't over strong. That's why I want to get work, that I may help her; and she wants me to be a clerk in a office, but I'd rather be a fireman. You couldn't make me a fireman, could you, ma'am?"

At this point Willie caught Miss Ward gazing intently at him over the top of her slate, so he threw her into violent confusion by winking at her.

"No, boy, I can't make you a fireman. Strange wish—why d'you want to be one?"

"'Cause it's such jolly fun," replied Willie; with real enthusiasm, "reg'lar bangin' crashin' sort o' work—as good as fightin' any day! An' my brother Frank's a fireman. Such a one, too, you've no notion; six fut four he is, an' as strong as—oh, why, ma'am, he could take you up in one hand, ma'am, an' twirl you round his head like an old hat! He was at the fire in Beverly Square last night."

This speech was delivered with such vehemence, contained so many objectionable sentiments, and involved such a dreadful supposition in regard to the treatment of Miss Tippet's person, that the worthy lady was shocked beyond all expression. The concluding sentence, however, diverted her thoughts.

"Ah! was he indeed at that sad fire, and did he help to put it out?"

"Sure, an' he did more than that," exclaimed Matty, regarding the boy with sudden interest. "If that was yer brother that saved Miss Loo he's a ra'al man—"

"Saved Loo!" cried Miss Tippet; "was it your brother that saved Loo?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was."

"Bless him; he is a noble fellow, and I have great pleasure in taking you by the hand for his sake."

Miss Tippet suited the action to the word, and seized Willie's hand, which she squeezed warmly. Matty Merryon, with tears in her eyes, embraced him, and said that she only wished she had the chance of embracing his brother, too. Then they all said he must stay to lunch, as it was about lunchtime, and Miss Tippet added that he deserved to have been born in a higher position in life—at least his brother did, which was the same thing, for he was a true what's-'is-name, who ought to be crowned with thingumyjigs.

Emma, who had latterly been looking at Willie with deepening respect, immediately crowned him with laurels on the slate, and then Matty rushed away for the lunch-tray—rejoicing in the fire, that had sent her back so soon to the old mistress whom she never wanted to leave; that had afforded scope for the display of such heroism, and had brought about altogether such an agreeable state of unwonted excitation.

Just as the party were on the point of sitting down to luncheon, the street-door knocker was applied to the door with an extremely firm touch.

"Miss Deemas!" exclaimed Miss Tippet. "Oh! I'm so glad. Rush, Matty."

Matty rushed, and immediately there was a sound on the wooden passage as of a gentleman with heavy boots. A moment later, and Matty ushered in a very tall, broad-shouldered, strapping lady; if we may venture to use that expression in reference to one of the fair sex.

Miss Deemas was a sort of human eagle. She had an eagle eye, an aquiline nose, an eagle flounce, and an eagle heart. Going up to Miss Tippet, she put a hand on each of her shoulders, and stooping down, pecked her, so to speak, on each cheek.

"How are you, my dear?" said Miss Deemas, not by any means tenderly; but much in the tone in which one would expect to have one's money or one's life demanded.

"Quite well, dear Julia, and so glad to see you. It is so good of you to take me by surprise this way; just at lunch-time, too. Another plate and knife, Matty. This is a little boy—a friend—not exactly a friend, but a—a thingumy, you know."

"No, I don't know, Emelina, what is the precise 'thingumy' you refer to this time," said the uncompromising and matter-of-fact Miss Deemas.

"You're so particular, dear Julia," replied Miss Tippet with a little sigh; "a what's-'is-n-, a protege, you know."

"Indeed," said Miss Deemas, regarding Willie with a severe frown, as if in her estimation all proteges were necessarily villains.

"Yes, dear Julia, and, would you believe it, that this boy's brother-in-law—"

"Brother, ma'am," interrupted Willie.

"Yes, brother, actually saved my darling's life last night, at the—the thing in Beverly Square."

"What 'darling's life,' and what 'thing' in Beverly Square?" demanded Miss Deemas.

"What! have you not heard of the fire last night in Beverly Square—my relative, James Auberly—living there with his family—all burnt to ashes—and my sweet Loo, too? A what's-'is-name was brought, and a brave fireman went up it, through fire and water and smoke. Young Auberly went up before him and fell—heat and suffocation—and saved her in his arms, and his name is Frank, and he's this boy's brother-in-law!"

To this brief summary, given with much excitement, Miss Deemas listened with quiet composure, and then said with grim sarcasm, and very slowly:

"Let me see; there was a fire in Beverly Square last night, and James Auberly, living there with his family, were all burned to ashes."

Miss Tippet here interrupted with, "No, no;" but her stern friend imposing silence, with an eagle look, continued:

"All burned to ashes, and also your sweet Loo. A 'what's-his-name' having been brought, a brave fireman goes up it, and apparently never comes down again (burned to ashes also, I fancy); but young Auberly, who went up before him, and fell—heat and suffocation being the result— saved some one named 'her' in his arms; his name being Frank (owing no doubt to his having been re-baptised, for ever since I knew him he has been named Frederick), and he is this boy's brother-in-law!"

By way of putting an extremely fine point on her sarcasm, Miss Deemas turned to Willie, with a very condescending air, and said:

"Pray, when did your sister marry Mr Frederick Auberly?"

Willie, with a face of meekness, that can only be likened to that of a young turtle-dove, replied:

"Please, ma'am, it isn't my sister as has married Mr Auberly; but it's my brother, Frank Willders, as hopes to marry Miss Loo Auberly, on account o' havin' saved her life, w'en she comes of age, ma'am."

Miss Deemas stood aghast, or rather sat aghast, on receiving this reply, and scanned Willie's face with one of her most eagle glances; but that small piece of impudence wore an expression of weak good-nature, and winked its eyes with the humility of a subdued pup, while Miss Tippet looked half-horrified and half-amused; Matty grinned, and Emma squeaked through her nose.

"Boy," said Miss Deemas severely, "your looks belie you."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Willie, "my mother always said I wasn't half so bad as I looked; and she's aware that I'm absent from home."

At this point Willie allowed a gleam of intelligence to shoot across his face, and he winked to Emma, who thereupon went into private convulsions in her handkerchief.

"Emelina," said Miss Deemas solemnly, "let me warn you against that boy. He is a bad specimen of a bad sex. He is a precocious type of that base, domineering, proud and perfidious creature that calls itself 'lord of creation,' and which, in virtue of its superior physical power, takes up every position in life worth having," ("except that of wife and mother," meekly suggested Miss Tippet), "worth having" (repeated the eagle sternly, as if the position of wife and mother were not worth having), "worth having, and leaves nothing for poor weak-bodied, though not weak-minded woman to do, except sew and teach brats. Bah! I hate men, and they hate me, I know it, and I would not have it otherwise. I wish they had never been made. I wish there had been none in the world but women. What a blessed world it would have been then!"

Miss Deemas hit the table with her hand, in a masculine manner, so forcibly, that the plates and glasses rattled, then she resumed, for she was now on a favourite theme, and was delivering a lecture to a select audience.

"But, mark you, I'm not going to be put down by men. I mean to fight 'em with their own weapons. I mean to—"

She paused suddenly at this point, and, descending from her platform, advised Miss Tippet to dismiss the boy at once.

Poor Miss Tippet prepared to do so. She was completely under the power of Miss Deemas, whom, strange to say, she loved dearly. She really believed that they agreed with each other on most points, although it was quite evident that they were utterly opposed to each other in everything. Wherein the bond lay no philosopher could discover. Possibly it lay in the fact that they were absolute extremes, and, in verification of the proverb, had met.

Be this as it may, a note was quickly written to her brother, Thomas Tippet, Esquire, which was delivered to Willie, with orders to take it the following evening to London Bridge, in the neighbourhood of which Mr Tippet dwelt and carried on his business.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A HIDDEN FIRE.

In the afternoon of the following day Willie set off to the City in quest of Mr Thomas Tippet. Having to pass the King Street fire station, he resolved to look in on his brother.

The folding-doors of the engine-house were wide open, and the engine itself, clean and business-like, with its brass-work polished bright, stood ready for instant action. Two of the firemen were conversing at the open door, while several others could be seen lounging about inside. In one of the former Willie recognised the strong man who had collared him on a well-remembered occasion.

"Please, sir," said Willie, going up to him, "is Frank Willders inside?"

"Why, youngster," said Dale, laying his hand on Willie's head, "ain't you the boy that pulled our bell for a lark the other night?"

"Yes, sir, I am; but you let me off, you know, so I hope you won't bear me ill-will now."

"That depends on how you behave in future," said Dale with a laugh; "but what d'you want with Frank Willders?"

"I want to see him. He's my brother."

"Oh, indeed! You'll find him inside."

Willie entered the place with feelings of interest, for his respect for firemen had increased greatly since he had witnessed their recent doings at the Beverly Square fire.

He found his brother writing at the little desk that stood in the window, while five or six of his comrades were chatting by the fire, and a group in a corner were playing draughts, and spinning yarns of their old experiences. All assisted in loading the air with tobacco-smoke.

The round cloth caps worn by the men gave them a much more sailor-like and much less fireman-like appearance than the helmets, which, with their respective hatchets, hung on the walls, rendering the apartment somewhat like a cavalry guard-room. This change in the head-piece, and the removal of the hatchet, was the only alteration in their costume in what may be styled "times of peace." In other respects they were at all times accoutred, and in readiness to commence instant battle with the flames.

"Hallo, Blazes! how are ye?" said Willie, touching his brother on the shoulder.

"That you, Willie?" said Frank, without looking up from his work. "Where away now?"

"Come to tell ye there's a fire," said Willie, with a serious look.

"Eh? what d'ye mean?" asked Frank, looking at his brother, as if he half believed he was in earnest.

"I mean what I say—a fire here," said Willie, solemnly striking his breast with his clenched fist, "here in Heart Street, Buzzum Square, ragin' like fury, and all the ingins o' the fire brigade, includin' the float, couldn't put it out, no, nor even so much as squeanch it!"

"Then it's of no use our turning out, I suppose?" said Frank with a smile, as he wiped his pen; "what set it alight, lad?"

"A wax doll with flaxen hair and blue eyes," answered Willie; "them's the things as has all along done for me. When I was a boy I falled in love with a noo wax doll every other day. Not that I ever owned one myself; I only took a squint at 'em in toy-shop winders, and they always had flaxen hair and blue peepers. Now that I've become a man, I've bin an' falled in love with a livin' wax doll, an' she's got flaxen hair an' blue eyes; moreover, she draws."

"Draws—boy! what does she draw—corks?" inquires Frank.

"No!" replied Willie, with a look of supreme contempt; "nothin' so low; she draws faces an' pictures like—like—a schoolmaster, and," added Willie, with a sigh, "she's bin an' drawed all the spirit out o' this here buzzum."

"She must have left a good lot o' combustible matter behind, however, if there's such a fire raging in it. Who may this pretty fire-raiser be?"

"Her name is Emma Ward, and she b'longs to a Miss Tippet, to whom she's related somehow, but I don't know where she got her, nor who's her parents. This same Miss Tippet is some sort of a relation o' Mr Auberly, who sent me to her with a note, and she has sent me with another note to her brother near London Bridge, who, I s'pose, will send me with another note to somebody else, so I'm on my way down to see him. I thought I'd look in to ask after you in passin', and cheer you on to dooty."

A violent fit of somewhat noisy coughing from one of the men at the fireplace attracted Willie's attention at this point in the conversation.

"Wot a noisy feller you are, Corney," remarked one of the men.

"Faix," retorted Corney, "it's noisy you'd be too av ye had the cowld in yer chist that I have. Sure, if ye had bin out five times in wan night as I wos on Widsenday last, wid the branch to howld in a smoke as 'ud choke Baxmore hisself (an' it's well known he can stand a'most anything), not to spake o' the hose bu'stin' right betune me two feet."

"Come, come, Paddy," said Dale, interrupting; "don't try to choke us, now; you know very well that one of the fires was only a cut-away affair; two were chimneys, and one was a false alarm."

"True for ye!" cried Corney, who had a tendency to become irascible in argument, or while defending himself; "true for ye, Mister Dale, but they was alarms for all that, false or thrue, was they not now? Anyhow they alarmed me out o' me bed five times in a night as cowld as the polar ragions, and the last time was a raale case o' two flats burnt out, an' four hours' work in iced wather."

There was a general laugh at this point, followed by several coughs and sneezes, for the men were all more or less afflicted with colds, owing to the severity of the weather and the frequency of the fires that had occurred at that time.

"There's some of us can sing chorus to Corney," observed one of the group. "I never saw such weather; and it seems to me that the worse the weather the more the fires, as if they got 'em up a purpose to kill us."

"Bill Moxey!" cried another, "you're always givin' out some truism with a face like Solomon."

"Well, Jack Williams," retorted Moxey, "it's more than I can say of you, for you never say anything worth listenin' to, and you couldn't look like Solomon if you was to try ever so much.—You're too stoopid for that."

"I say, lads," cried Frank Willders, "what d'ye say to send along to the doctor for another bottle o' cough mixture, same as the first?"

This proposal was received with a general laugh.

"He'll not send us more o' that tipple, you may depend," said Williams.

"No, not av we wos dyin'," said Corney, with a grin.

"What was it?" asked Williams.

"Didn't you hear about it?" inquired Moxey. "Oh, to be sure not; you were in hospital after you got run over by the Baker Street engine. Tell him about it, Corney. It was you that asked the doctor, wasn't it, for another bottle?"

Corney was about to speak, when a young fireman entered the room with his helmet hanging on his arm.

"Is it go on?" he inquired, looking round.

"No, it's go back, young Rags," replied Baxmore, as he refilled his pipe; "it was only a chimney, so you're not wanted."

"Can any o' you fellers lend me a bit o' baccy?" asked Rags. "I've forgot to fetch mine."

"Here you are," said Dale, offering him a piece of twist.

"Han't ye got a bit o' hard baccy for the tooth?" said Rags.

"Will that do?" asked Frank Willders, cutting off a piece from a plug of cavendish.

"Thank'ee. Good afternoon."

Young Rags put the quid in his cheek, and went away humming a tune.

In explanation of the above incident, it is necessary to tell the reader that when a fire occurred in any part of London at the time of which we write, the fire-station nearest to it at once sent out its engines and men, and telegraphed to the then head or centre station at Watling Street. London was divided into four districts, each district containing several fire stations, and being presided over by a foreman. From Watling Street the news was telegraphed to the foremen's stations, whence it was transmitted to the stations of their respective districts, so that in a few minutes after the breaking out of a fire the fact was known to the firemen all over London.

As we have said, the stations nearest to the scene of conflagration turned out engines and men; but the other stations furnished a man each. Thus machinery was set in motion which moved, as it were, the whole metropolis; and while the engines were going to the fire at full speed, single men were setting out from every point of the compass to walk to it, with their sailors' caps on their heads and their helmets on their arms.

And this took place in the case of every alarm of fire, because fire is an element that will not brook delay, and it does not do to wait to ascertain whether it is worth while to turn out such a force of men for it or not.

In order, however, to prevent this unnecessary assembling of men when the fire was found to be trifling, or when, as was sometimes the case, it was a false alarm, the fireman in charge of the engine that arrived first, at once sent a man back to the station with a "stop," that is, with an order to telegraph to the central station that the fire turns out to be only a chimney or a false alarm, and that all hands who have started from the distant stations may be "stopped." The "stop" was at once telegraphed to the foremen, from whom it was passed (just as the "call" had been) to the outlying stations, and this second telegram might arrive within quarter of an hour of the first.

Of course the man from each station had set out before that time, and the "stop" was too late for him, but it was his duty to call at the various fire stations he happened to pass on the way, where he soon found out whether he was to "go on" or to "go back."

If no telegram had been received, he went on to the fire; sometimes walking four or five miles to it, "at not less than four miles an hour." On coming up to the scene of conflagration, he put on his helmet, thrust his cap into the breast of his coat, and reported himself to the chief of the fire brigade (who was usually on the spot), or to the foreman in command, and found, probably, that he had arrived just in time to be of great service in the way of relieving the men who first attacked the flames.

If, on the other hand, he found that the "stop" had been telegraphed, he turned back before having gone much more than a mile from his own station, and so went quietly home to bed. In the days of which we write the effective and beautiful system of telegraphy which now exists had not been applied to the fire stations of London, and the system of "stops" and "calls," although in operation, was carried out much less promptly and effectively by means of messengers.

Some time before the entrance of Willie Willders into the King Street station the engine had been turned out to a fire close at hand, which proved to be only a chimney on fire, and which was put out by means of a hand-pump and a bucket of water, while Moxey was sent back with the "stop" to the station. The affair was over and almost forgotten, and the men had resumed their pipes, as we have seen, when young Rags entered and was told to go back.

Apologising for this necessary digression, we return to Joe Corney.

"The fact was," said he, "that we had had a fearful time of it that winter—blowin' great guns an' snow nearly every night, an' what wi' heat at the fires an' cowld i' the streets, an' hot wather pourin' on us at wan minnit an' freezin' on us the nixt, a'most every man Jack of us was coughin' an' sneezin', and watherin' so bad at our eyes an' noses, that I do belave if we'd held 'em over the suction-pipes we might ha' filled the ingins without throublin' the mains at all. So the doctor he said, says he, 'Lads, I'll send ye a bottle o' stuff as'll put ye right.' An' sure enough down comes the bottle that night when we was smokin' our pipes just afther roll-call. It turned out to be the best midcine ever was. 'Musha!' says I, 'here's the top o' the marnin' to ye, boys!' Baxmore he smacks his lips when he tastes it, opens his eyes, tosses off the glass, and holds it out for another. 'Howld on; fair play!' cried Jack Williams, so we all had a glass round. It was just like lemonade or ginger-beer, it was. So we sat down an' smoked our pipes over it, an' spun yarns an' sung songs; in fact we made a jollification of it, an' when we got up to turn in there warn't a dhrop left i' the bottle.

"'You'd better go to the doctor for another bottle,' says Moxey, as he wint out.

"'I will,' says I; 'I'll go i' the marnin'.'

"Sure enough away I goes i' the marnin' to Doctor Offley. 'Doctor,' says I, howldin' out the bottle, 'we all think our colds are much the better o' this here midcine, an' I comed, av ye plaze, for another o' the same.'

"Musha! but ye should ha' seen the rage he goes off into. 'Finished it all?' says he. 'Ivery dhrop, doctor,' says I, 'at wan sittin'.' At that he stamped an' swore at me, an' ordered me away as if I'd bin a poor relation; an' says he, 'I'll sind ye a bottle to-night as'll cure ye!' Sure so he did. The second bottle would have poison'd a rat. It lasted us all six months, an' I do belave ye'll find the most of it in the cupboard at this minnit av ye look."

"Come, Willie," said Frank, while the men were laughing at the remembrance of this incident. "I'm going down your way and will give you a convoy. We can take a look in at the gymnastics as we pass, if you choose."

"All right, Blazes, come along." So saying they left the station, and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the City.



CHAPTER NINE.

AUCTIONS AND GYMNASTICS.

As the brothers drew near to the busy region of the City which lies to the north of London Bridge; Frank turned aside into one of the narrow streets that diverge from the main thoroughfare.

"Where are ye goin'?" inquired Willie.

"There was a fire here last night," said Frank; "I want to have a look at the damage."

"A fire!" exclaimed Willie. "Why, Blazes, it strikes me there's bin more fires than usual last night in London."

"Only two, lad."

"Only two! How many would you have?" asked Willie with a laugh.

"Don't you know," said Frank, "that we have about four fires every night? Sometimes more, sometimes fewer. Of course, we don't all of us turn out to them; but some of the brigade turn out to that number, on an average, every night of the year."

"Are ye jokin', Frank?"

"Indeed I am not. I wish with all my heart I could say that I was joking. It's a fact, boy. You know I have not been long in the force, yet I've gone to as many as six fires in one night, and we often go to two or three. The one we are going to see the remains of just now was too far from us for our engine to turn out; but we got the call to send a man on, and I was sent. When I arrived and reported myself to Mr Braidwood, the two top floors were burnt out, and the fire was nearly got under. There were three engines, and the men were up on the window-sills of the second-floor with the branches, playin' on the last of the flames, while the men of the salvage-corps were getting the furniture out of the first floor. Conductor Brown was there with his escape, and had saved a whole family from the top floor, just before I arrived. He had been changed from his old station at the West End that very day. He's a wonderful fellow, that conductor! Many a life he has saved; but, indeed, the same may be said of most of the men in the force, especially the old hands. Here we are, lad. This is the house."

Frank stopped, as he spoke, in front of a ruined tenement, or rather, in front of the gap which was now strewn with the charred and blackened debris of what had once been a house. The street in which it stood was a narrow, mean one, inhabited by a poor, and, to judge from appearance, a dissipated class. The remains of the house were guarded by policemen, while a gang of men were engaged in digging among the ruins, which still smoked a little here and there.

"What are they diggin' for?" asked Willie.

"I fear they are looking for dead bodies. The house was let out to lodgers, and swarmed with people. At first it was thought that all were saved; but just before I was ordered home after the fire was got under, some one said that an old man and his grandchild were missing. I suppose they're looking for them now."

On inquiring of a policeman, however, Frank learned that the remains of the old man and his grandchild had already been found, and that they were searching for the bodies of others who were missing. A little beyond the spot where the fire had occurred, a crowd was gathered round a man who stood on a chair haranguing them, with apparently considerable effect, for ever and anon his observations were received with cries of "Hear, hear," and laughter. Going along the middle of the narrow street, in order to avoid the smell of the old-clothes'-shops and pawnbrokers, as well as the risk of contact with their wares, Frank and Willie elbowed their way through the crowd to within a few yards of the speaker.

"What is he?" inquired Frank of a rather dissipated elderly woman.

"He's a clown or a hacrobat, or somethink of that sort, in one of the theatres or music-'alls. He's bin burnt out o' his 'ome last night, an's a-sellin' off all he's been able to save, by hauction."

"Come; now, ladies an' gents," cried the clown, taking up a rather seedy-looking great-coat, which he held aloft with one hand, and pointed to it with the other, "Who's agoin' to bid for this 'ere garment—a hextra superfine, double-drilled, kershimere great-coat, fresh from the looms o' Tuskany—at least it was fresh from 'em ten years ago (that was when my grandfather was made Lord Mayor of London), an' its bin renewing its youth (the coat, not the Lord Mayor) ever since. It's more glossy, I do assure you, ladies and gents, than w'en it fust comed from the looms, by reason of the pile havin' worn off; and you'll obsarve that the glossiness is most beautiful and brightest about the elbows an' the seams o' the back. Who bids for this 'ere venerable garment? Six bob? Come now, don't all bid at once. Who said six bob?"

No reply being made to this, except a laugh, the clown (who, by the way, wore a similarly glossy great-coat, with a hat to match) protested that his ears must have deceived him, or his imagination had been whispering hopeful things—which was not unlikely, for his imagination was a very powerful one—when he noticed Frank's tall figure among the crowd.

"Come now, fireman, this is the wery harticle you wants. You comed out to buy it, I know, an' 'ere it is, by a strange coincidence, ready-made to hand. What d'ye bid? Six bob? Or say five. I know you've got a wife an' a large family o' young firemen to keep, so I'll let it go cheap. P'raps it's too small for you; but that's easy put right. You've only got to slit it up behind to the neck, which is a' infallible cure for a tight fit, an' you can let down the cuffs, which is double, an' if it's short you can cut off the collar, an' sew it on to the skirts. It's water-proof, too, and fire-proof, patent asbestos. W'en it's dirty you've got nothin' to do but walk into the fire, an' it'll come out noo. W'en it's thoroughly wet on the houtside, turn it hinside hout, an' there you are, to all appearance as dry as bone. What! you won't have it at no price? Well, now, I'll tempt you. I'll make it two bob."

"Say one," cried a baker, who had been listening to this, with a broad grin on his floury countenance.

"Ladies and gents," cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity; "there's an individual in this crowd—I beg parden, this assemblage—as asks me to say 'one.' I do say 'one,' an' I say it with melancholy feelin's as to the liberality of my species. One bob! A feller-man as has bin burnt hout of 'is 'ome an' needs ready money to keep 'im from starvation, offers his best great-coat—a hextra superfine, double-drilled (or milled, I forget w'ich) kershimere, from the looms o' Tuskany—for one bob!"

"One-an'-six," muttered an old-clothes-man, with a black cotton sack on his shoulder.

"One-an'-six," echoed the clown with animation; "one-an'-six bid; one-an'-six. Who said one-an'-seven? Was it the gent with the red nose?—No, one-an'-six; goin' at the ridiculously low figure of one-an'-six—gone! as the old 'ooman said w'en her cat died o' apple-plexy. Here you are; hand over the money. I can't knock it down to you, 'cause I haven't a hauctioneer's 'ammer. Besides, it's agin' my principles. I've never knocked nothin' down, not even a skittle, since I joined the Peace Society.

"Now, ladies an' gents, the next thing I've got to hoffer is a harm-chair. Hand up the harmchair, Jim."

A very antique piece of furniture was handed up by a little boy, whom Willie recognised as the little boy who had once conversed with him in front of the chocolate-shop in Holborn Hill.

"Thank you, my son," said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and patting the boy's head with the other; "this, ladies and gents," he added in a parenthetical tone, "is my son; he's bin burnt hout of 'ouse an' 'ome, too! Now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. In the embrace o' this 'ere chair has sat for generations past the family o' the Cattleys—that's my name, ladies an gents, at your service. Here sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his great-grandfather sat in it too. Here sat his son, and his son's son— the Lord Mayor as was—and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the 'ighest bidder. You'll observe its antiquity, ladies an' gents. That's its beauty. It's what I may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of virtoo, w'ich means that it's a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous memories in connection with the defunct. Now then, say five bob for the hold harm-chair!"

While the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, Willie pushed his way to the side of Jim Cattley.

"I say, youngster, would you like a cup o' chocolate?" began Willie by way of recalling to the boy their former meeting.

Jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said, "Come, I don't want none o' your sauce!"

"It ain't sauce I'm talkin' of, it's chocolate," retorted Willie. "But come, Jim, I don't want to bother ye. I'm sorry to see you an yer dad in sitch a fix. Have you lost much?"

"It's not what we've lost that troubles us," said Jim, softened by Willie's sympathetic tone more than by his words; "but sister Ziza is took bad, an' she's a fairy at Drury Lane, an' takin' her down the fire-escape has well-nigh killed her, an' we've got sitch a cold damp cellar of a place to put her in, that I don't think she'll get better at all; anyhow, she'll lose her engagement, for she can't make two speeches an' go up in a silver cloud among blue fire with the 'flooenzer, an 'er 'air all but singed off 'er 'ead."

Jim almost whimpered at this point, and Willie, quitting his side abruptly, went back to Frank (who was still standing an amused auditor of the clown), and demanded a shilling.

"What for, lad?"

"Never you mind, Blazes; but give me the bob, an' I'll pay you back before the week's out."

Frank gave him a shilling, with which he at once returned to Jim, and thrusting it into his hand, said:

"There, Jim, your dad's hard up just now. Go you an' get physic with that for the fairy. Them 'floo-enzers is ticklish things to play with. Where d'ye stop?"

"Well, you are a queer 'un; thank'ee all the same," said Jim, pocketing the shilling. "We've got a sort o' cellar just two doors east o' the burnt 'ouse. Why?"

"'Cause I'll come an' see you, Jim. I'd like to see a live fairy in plain clo'se, with her wings off—"

The rest of the sentence was cut short by the clown, who, having disposed of the old arm-chair to a chimney-sweep, ordered Jim to "'and up another harticle." At the same moment Frank touched Willie on the shoulder, and said, "Let's go, lad; I'll be late, I fear, for the gymnastics."

At the period of which we write, the then Chief of the London Fire Brigade, Mr Braidwood, had introduced a system of gymnastic training among the firemen, which he had found from experience to be a most useful exercise to fit the men for the arduous work they had to perform. Before going to London to take command of and reorganise the brigade which then went by the name of the London Fire-Engine Establishment, and was in a very unsatisfactory condition, Mr Braidwood had, for a long period, been chief of the Edinburgh Fire Brigade, which he had brought to a state of great efficiency. Taking the requirements and conditions of the service in Edinburgh into consideration, he had come to the conclusion that the best men for the work in that city were masons, house-carpenters, slaters, and suchlike; but these men, when at their ordinary employments, being accustomed to bring only certain muscles into full play, were found to have a degree of stiffness in their general movements which prevented them from performing their duty as firemen with that ease and celerity which are so desirable. To obviate this evil he instituted the gymnastic exercises, which, by bringing all the muscles of the body into action, and by increasing the development of the frame generally, rendered the men lithe and supple, and in every way more fitted for the performance of duties in which their lives frequently depended on their promptitude and vigour.

In addition to these advantages, it was found that those exercises gave the men confidence when placed in certain situations of danger. "For example," writes Mr Braidwood, "a fireman untrained in gymnastics, on the third or fourth floor of a burning house, with the branch in his hands, who is uncertain as to his means of escape, in the event of his return by the stair being cut off, will be too much concerned about his own safety to render much service, and will certainly not be half so efficient as the experienced gymnast, who, with a hatchet and eighty feet of rope at his waist, and a window near him, feels himself in comparative security, knowing that he has the means and the power of lowering himself easily and safely into the street"—a knowledge which not only gives him confidence, but enables him to give his undistracted attention to the exigencies of the fire.

It was to attend this gymnastic class that Frank now turned aside, and proposed to bid Willie goodbye; but Willie begged to be taken into the room. Frank complied, and the boy soon found himself in an apartment fitted up with all the appliances of a gymnasium, where a number of powerful young men were leaping, vaulting, climbing, and in other ways improving their physical powers. Frank joined them, and for a long time Willie stood in rapt and envious contemplation of the busy scene.

At first he could not avoid feeling that there seemed a good deal more of play than business in their doings; but his admiration of the scene deepened when he remembered the bold acts of the firemen at Beverly Square, and recognised some of the faces of the men who had been on duty there, and reflected that these very men, who seemed thus to be playing themselves, would on that very night, in all probability, be called upon to exert these powers sternly and seriously, yet coolly, in the midst of scenes of terror and confusion, and in the face of imminent personal danger.

Brooding over these things, Willie, having at length torn himself away, hastened on his pilgrimage to London Bridge.



CHAPTER TEN.

DIFFICULTIES AND DISSIPATIONS.

In a very small office, situate in a very large warehouse, in that great storehouse of the world's wealth, Tooley Street, sat a clerk named Edward Hooper.

Among his familiar friends Edward was better known by the name of Ned.

He was seated on the top of a tall three-legged stool, which, to judge from the uneasy and restless motions of its occupant, must have been a peculiarly uncomfortable seat indeed.

There was a clock on the wall just opposite to Ned's desk, which that young gentleman was in the habit of consulting frequently—very frequently—and comparing with his watch, as if he doubted its veracity. This was very unreasonable, for he always found that the two timepieces told the truth; at least, that they agreed with each other. Nevertheless, in his own private heart, Ned Hooper thought that clock— and sometimes called it—"the slowest piece of ancient furniture he had ever seen."

During one of Ned's comparisons of the two timepieces the door opened, and Mr Auberly entered, with a dark cloud, figuratively speaking, on his brow.

At the same moment the door of an inner office opened, and Mr Auberly's head clerk, who had seen his employer's approach through the dusty window, issued forth and bowed respectfully, with a touch of condolence in his air, as he referred with much regret to the fire at Beverly Square, and hoped that Miss Auberly was not much the worse of her late alarm.

"Well, she is not the better for it," said Mr Auberly; "but I hope she will be quite well soon. Indeed, the doctor assures me of this, if care is taken of her. I wish that was the only thing on my mind just now; but I am perplexed about another matter, Mr Quill. Are you alone?"

"Quite alone, sir," said Quill, throwing open the door of the inner office.

"I want to consult with you about Frederick," said Mr Auberly as he entered.

The door shut out the remainder of the consultation at this point, so Edward Hooper consulted the clock again and sighed.

If sighs could have delivered Hooper from his sorrows, there is no doubt that the accumulated millions of which he was delivered in that office, during the last five years, would have filled him with a species of semi-celestial bliss.

At last, the hands of the clock reached the hour, the hour that was wont to evoke Ned's last sigh and set him free; but it was an aggravating clock. Nothing would persuade it to hurry. It would not, for all the untold wealth contained in the great stores of Tooley Street, have abated the very last second of the last minute of the hour. On the contrary, it went through that second quite as slowly as all the others. Ned fancied it went much slower at that one on purpose; and then, with a sneaking parade of its intention to begin to strike, it gave a prolonged hiss, and did its duty, and nothing but its duty; by striking the hour at a pace so slow, that it recalled forcibly to Ned Hooper's imaginative mind, "the minute-gun at sea."

There was a preliminary warning given by that clock some time before the premonitory hiss. Between this harbinger of coming events, and the joyful sound which was felt to be "an age," Ned was wont to wipe his pen and arrange his papers. When the hiss began, he invariably closed his warehouse book and laid it in the desk, and had the desk locked before the first stroke of the hour. While the "minute-gun at sea" was going on, he changed his office-coat for a surtout, not perfectly new, and a white hat with a black band, the rim of which was not perfectly straight. So exact and methodical was Ned in these operations, that his hand usually fell on the door-latch as the last gun was fired by the aggravating clock. On occasions of unusual celerity he even managed to drown the last shot in the bang of the door, and went off with a sensation of triumph.

On the present occasion, however, Ned Hooper deemed it politic to be so busy, that he could not attend to the warnings of the timepiece. He even sat on his stool a full quarter of an hour beyond the time of departure. At length, Mr Auberly issued forth.

"Mr Quill," said he, "my mind is made up, so it is useless to urge such considerations on me. Good-night."

Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he would willingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, and backed them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly's tone was peremptory, so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.

"You can go, Hooper," said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inner office, "I will lock up. Send the porter here."

This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured, easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being a presumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited for Mr Quill's permission to go. He was already in the act of putting on the white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wending his way homeward.

There was a tavern named the "Angel" at the corner of one of the streets off Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on his way home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always found it difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never found any difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always went in and slaked his thirst before passing it.

"Good evening, Mr Hooper," said the landlord, who was busy behind his counter serving a motley and disreputable crew.

Hooper nodded in reply, and said good evening to Mrs Butler, who attended to the customers at another part of the counter.

"Good evenin', sir. W'at'll you 'ave to-night, sir?"

"Pot o' the same, Mrs B," replied Ned.

This was the invariable question and reply, for Ned was a man of regularity and method in everything that affected his personal comforts. Had he brought one-tenth of this regularity and method to bear on his business conduct, he would have been a better and a happier man.

The foaming pot was handed, and Ned conversed with Mrs Butler while he enjoyed it, and commenced his evening, which usually ended in semi-intoxication.

Meanwhile, Edward Hooper's "chum" and fellow-lodger sat in their mutual chamber awaiting him.

John Barret did not drink, but he smoked; and, while waiting for his companion, he solaced himself with a pipe. He was a fine manly fellow, very different from Ned; who, although strong of limb and manly enough, was slovenly in gait and dress, and bore unmistakable marks of dissipation about him.

"Very odd; he's later than usual," muttered Barret, as he glanced out at the window, and then at the tea-table, which, with the tea-service, and, indeed everything in the room, proved that the young men were by no means wealthy.

"He'll be taking an extra pot at the 'Angel,'" muttered John Barret, proceeding to re-light his pipe, while he shook his head gravely; "but he'll be here soon."

A foot on the stair caused Barret to believe that he was a true prophet; but the rapidity and firmness of the step quickly disabused him of that idea.

The door was flung open with a crash, and a hearty youth with glowing eyes strode in.

"Fred Auberly!" exclaimed Barret in surprise.

"Won't you welcome me?" demanded Fred.

"Welcome you? Of course I will, most heartily, old boy!" cried Barret, seizing his friend's hand and wringing it; "but if you burst in on a fellow unexpectedly in this fashion, and with such wild looks, why—"

"Well, well, don't explain, man; I hate explanations. I have come here for sympathy," said Fred Auberly, shutting the door and sitting down by the fire.

"Sympathy, Fred?"

"Ay, sympathy. When a man is in distress he naturally craves for sympathy, and he turns, also naturally, to those who can and will give it—not to everybody, John Barret—only to those who can feel with him as well as for him. I am in distress, John, and ever since you and I fought our first and last battle at Eton, I have found you a true sympathiser. So now, is your heart ready to receive the flood of my sorrows?"

Young Auberly said the latter part of this in a half-jesting tone, but he was evidently in earnest, so his friend replied by squeezing his hand warmly, and saying, "Let's hear about it, Fred," while he re-lighted his pipe.

"You have but a poor lodging here, John," said Auberly, looking round the room.

Barret turned on his friend a quick look of surprise, and then said, with a smile:

"Well, I admit that it is not quite equal to a certain mansion in Beverly Square that I wot of, but it's good enough for a poor clerk in an insurance office."

"You are right," continued Auberly; "it is not equal to that mansion, whose upper floors are at this moment a chevaux-de-frise of charcoal beams and rafters depicted on a dark sky, and whose lower floors are a fantastic compound of burned bricks and lime, broken boards, and blackened furniture."

"You don't mean to say there's been a fire?" exclaimed Barret.

"And you don't mean to tell me, do you, that a clerk in a fire insurance office does not know it?"

"I have been ill for two days," returned Barret, "and have not seen the papers; but I'm very sorry to hear of it; indeed I am. The house is insured, of course?"

"I believe it is," replied Fred carelessly; "but that is not what troubles me."

"No?" exclaimed his friend.

"No," replied the other. "If the house had not been insured my father has wealth enough in those abominably unpicturesque stores in Tooley Street to rebuild the whole of Beverly Square if it were burnt down. The fire costs me not a thought, although, by the way, it nearly cost me my life, in a vain attempt I made to rescue my poor dear sister Loo—"

"Vain attempt!" exclaimed Barret, with a look of concern.

"Ay, vain, as far as I was concerned; but a noble fireman—a fellow that would make a splendid model for Hercules in the Life Academy—sprang to the rescue after me and saved her. God bless him! Dear Loo has got a severe shake, but the doctors say that we have only to take good care of her, and she will do well. But to return to my woes. Listen, John, and you shall hear."

Fred Auberly paused, as though meditating how he should commence.

"You know," said he, "that I am my father's only son, and Loo his only daughter."

"Yes."

"Well, my father has disinherited me and left the whole of his fortune to Loo. As far as dear Loo is concerned I am glad; for myself I am sad, for it is awkward, to say the least of it, to have been brought up with unlimited command of pocket-money, and expectations of considerable wealth, and suddenly to find myself all but penniless, without a profession and without expectations, at the age of twenty-two."

He paused and looked at his friend, who sat in mute amazement.

"Failing Loo," continued Fred calmly, "my father's fortune goes to some distant relative."

"But why? wherefore?" exclaimed Barret.

"You shall hear," continued Auberly. "You are aware that ever since I was able to burn the end of a stick and draw faces on the nursery-door, I have had a wild, insatiable passion for drawing; and ever since the memorable day on which I was whipped by my father, and kissed, tearfully, by my beloved mother, for caricaturing our cook on the dining-room window with a diamond-ring, I have had an earnest, unextinguishable desire to become a—a painter, an artist, a dauber, a dirtier of canvas. D'ye understand?"

"Perfectly," said Barret.

"Well, my father has long been resolved, it seems, to make me a man of business, for which I have no turn whatever. You are aware that for many years I have dutifully slaved and toiled at these heavy books in our office—which have proved so heavy that they have nearly squeezed the soul out of me—and instead of coming to like them better (as I was led to believe I should), I have only come to hate them more. During all this time, too, I have been studying painting late and early, and although I have not gone through the regular academical course, I have studied much in the best of all schools, that of Nature. I have urged upon my father repeatedly and respectfully, that it is possible for me to uphold the credit of the family as a painter; that, as the business can be carried on by subordinates, there is no necessity for me to be at the head of it; and that, as he has made an ample fortune already, the half of which he had told me was to be mine, I would be quite satisfied with my share, and did not want any more. But my father would never listen to my arguments. The last time we got on the subject he called me a mean-spirited fellow, and said he was sorry I had ever been born; whereupon I expressed regret that he had not been blessed with a more congenial and satisfactory son, and tried to point out that it was impossible to change my nature. Then I urged all the old arguments over again, and wound up by saying that even if I were to become possessor of the whole of his business to-morrow, I would sell it off, take to painting as a profession, and become the patron of aspiring young painters from that date forward!

"To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such a towering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not then and there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, I declined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presence for ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. I thought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutability of human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street was not made of asbestos, and that an occasional fire occurred there! But this made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that I would, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to the office at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him to such a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should 'throw my palette and brushes into the fire!' Flesh and blood, you know, could not do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the country to relieve my feelings. There I fell in with such a splendid 'bit;' a sluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water with overhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down and sketched, and forgot my woes, and rejoiced in the fresh air and delightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and hated to think of Tooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to London next day, and, voila! here I am!"

"Don't you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?"

"No, I don't think it. On the contrary, I know it won't. He is a good man; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued."

"Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwing your palette and brushes into—"

"My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for your sympathy."

"And you have it, Fred," cried Barret earnestly. "But have you really such an unconquerable love for painting?"

"Have I really!" echoed Fred. "Do you think I would have come to such a pass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longs for the life of a painter, for the free fresh air of the country, for the poetry of the woods, the water, and the sky, for the music of bird and beast and running brook. You know the true proverb, 'Man made the town; but God made the country!'"

"What," asked Barret, "would become of the town, if all men thought as you do?"

"Oh! John Barret, has town life so marred your once fine intellect, that you put such a question in earnest? Suppose I answer it by another: What would become of the country if all men thought and acted as you do?"

Barret smiled and smoked.

"And what," continued Auberly, "would become of the fine arts if all men delighted in dirt, dust, dullness, and desks? Depend upon it, John, that our tastes and tendencies are not the result of accident; they were given to us for a purpose. I hold it as an axiom that when a man or a boy has a strong and decided bias or partiality for any particular work that he knows something about, he has really a certain amount of capacity for that work beyond the average of men, and is led thereto by a higher power than that of man. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say that, when a boy expresses a longing desire to enter the navy or the army, he has necessarily an aptitude for these professions. Far from it. He has only a romantic notion of something about which, experimentally, he knows nothing; but, when man or boy has put his hand to any style of work, and thereafter loves it and longs after it, I hold that that is the work for which he was destined, and for which he is best suited."

"Perhaps you are right," said Barret, smoking harder than ever. "At all events, I heartily sympathise with you, and—"

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of whistling, as the street-door opened and the strains of "Rule Britannia" filled the entire building. The music was interrupted by the sudden opening of another door, and a rough growl from a male voice.

"Don't get waxy, old feller," said the performer in a youthful voice, "I ain't a-goin' to charge you nothink for it. I always do my music gratis; havin' a bee-nevolient turn o' mind."

The door was slammed violently, and "Rule Britannia" immediately burst forth with renewed and pointed emphasis.

Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret's door.

"Well, what d'ye want, you noisy scamp?" said Barret, flinging the door open, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders.

"Please, sir," said Willie, consulting the back of a note; "are you Mister T-Tom—Tupper, Esquire?"

"No, I'm not."

"Ain't there sitch a name in the house?"

"No, not that I know of."

Willie's face looked blank.

"Well, I was told he lived here," he muttered, again consulting the note.

"Here, let me look," said Barret, taking the note from the boy. "This is Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way, Auberly," said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, "Isn't Tom Tippet a sort of connection of yours?"

"Yes; a distant one," said Fred carelessly, "too distant to make it worth while our becoming acquainted. He's rich and eccentric, I'm told. Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this. What are you staring at, boy?"

This question was put to Willie.

"Please, sir, are you the Mr Auberly who was a'most skumfished with smoke at the Beverly Square fire t'other day, in tryin' to git hold o' yer sister?"

Fred could not but smile as he admitted the fact.

"Please, sir, I hope yer sister ain't the wuss of it, sir."

"Not much, I hope; thank you for inquiring; but how come you to know about the fire, and to be interested in my sister?"

"'Cause I was there, sir; an' it was my brother, sir, Frank Willders, as saved your sister."

"Was it, indeed!" exclaimed Fred, becoming suddenly interested. "Come, let me hear more about your brother."

Willie, nothing loth, related every fact he was acquainted with in regard to Frank's career, and his own family history, in the course of which he revealed the object of his visit to Mr Tippet. When he had finished, Frederick Auberly shook hands with him and said:

"Now, Willie, go and deliver your note. If the application is successful, well; but if it fails, or you don't like your work, just call upon me, and I'll see what can be done for you."

"Yes, sir, and thankee," said Willie; "where did you say I was to call, sir?"

"Call at—eh—ah—yes, my boy, call here, and let my friend Mr Barret know you want to see me. He will let me know, and you shall hear from me. Just at present—well, never mind, go and deliver your note now. Your brother is a noble fellow. Good-night. And you're a fine little fellow yourself," he added, after Willie closed the door.

The fine little fellow gave vent to such a gush of "Rule Britannia" at the moment, that the two friends turned with a smile to each other.

Just then a man's voice was heard at the foot of the stair, grumbling angrily. At the same moment young Auberly rose to leave.

"Good-night, Barret. I'll write to you soon as to my whereabout and what about. Perhaps see you ere long."

"Good-night. God prosper you, Fred. Good-night."

As he spoke, the grumbler came stumbling along the passage.

"Good-night again, Fred," said Barret, almost pushing his friend out. "I have a particular reason for not wishing you to see the fr-, the man who is coming in."

"All right, old fellow," said Fred as he passed out, and drew up against the wall to allow a drunken man to stumble heavily into the room.

Next moment he was in the street hastening he knew not whither; but following the old and well-known route to Beverly Square.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WONDERFUL PLANS.

When Willie Willders knocked at Tom Tippet's door, at the top of the house, a rich jovial bass voice cried, "Come in." So Willie went in, and stood before a stout old gentleman, whose voluminous whiskers, meeting below his chin, made ample amends for the total absence of hair from the top of his head.

Mr Tippet stood, without coat or vest, and with his braces tied round his waist, at a carpenter's bench, holding a saw in his right hand, and a piece of wood in his left.

"Well, my lad, what's your business?" he inquired in the voice of a stentor, and with the beaming smile of an elderly cherub.

"Please, sir, a note—from a lady."

"I wish your message had been verbal, boy. It's so difficult to read ladies' hands; they're so abominably angular, and—where are my specs? I've a mind to have 'em screw-nailed to my nose. Ah! here they are."

He found them under a jack-plane and a mass of shavings; put them on and read the note, while Willie took the opportunity of observing that Mr Tippet's room was a drawing-room, parlour, dining-room, workshop, and old curiosity-shop, all in one. A half-open door revealed the fact that an inner chamber contained Mr Tippet's bed, and an indescribable mass of machinery and models in every stage of progression, and covered with dust, more or less thick in exact proportion to their respective ages. A dog and cat lay side by side on the hearth asleep, and a small fire burned in a grate, on the sides of which stood a variety of crucibles and such-like articles and a glue-pot; also a tea-pot and kettle.

"You want a situation in my office as a clerk?" inquired Mr Tippet, tearing up his sister's letter, and throwing it into the fire.

"If you please, sir," said Willie.

"Ha! are you good at writing and ciphering?"

"Middlin', sir."

"Hum! D'you know where my office is, and what it is?"

"No, sir."

"What would you say now," asked Mr Tippet, seating himself on his bench, or rather on the top of a number of gimblets and chisels and files and pincers that lay on it; "what would you say now to sitting from morning till night in a dusty ware-room, where the light is so feeble that it can scarcely penetrate the dirt that encrusts the windows, writing in books that are so greasy that the ink can hardly be got to mark the paper? How would you like that, William Willders—eh?"

"I don't know, sir," replied Willie, with a somewhat depressed look.

"Of course you don't, yet that is the sort of place you'd have to work in, boy, if I engaged you, for that is a correct description of my warehouse. I'm a sleeping partner in the firm. D'ye know what that is, boy?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it's a partner that does no work; but I'm wide-awake for all that, an' have a pretty good notion of what is going on there. Now, lad, if I were to take you in, what would you say to 5 pounds a year?"

"It don't sound much, sir," said Willie bluntly, "but if you take me in with the understandin' that I'm to work my way up'ards, I don't mind about the pay at first."

"Good," said Mr Tippet, with a nod of approval. "What d'ye think of my workshop?" he added, looking round with a cherubic smile.

"It's a funny place," responded Willie, with a grin.

"A funny place—eh? Well, I daresay it is, lad, in your eyes; but let me tell you, it is a place of deep interest, and, I may add without vanity, importance. There are inventions here, all in a state bordering more or less upon completion, which will, when brought into operation, modify the state of society very materially in many of its most prominent phases. Here, for instance, is a self-acting galvano-hydraulic engine, which will entirely supersede the use of steam, and, by preventing the consumption of coal now going on, will avert, or at least postpone, the decline of the British Empire. Able men have calculated that, in the course of a couple of hundred years or so, our coal-beds will be exhausted. I have gone over their calculations and detected several flaws in them, which, when corrected, show a very different result—namely, that in seventeen or eighteen years from this time there will not be an ounce of coal in the kingdom!"

Mr Tippet paused to observe the effect of this statement. Willie having never heard of such things before, and having a thoughtful and speculative as well as waggish turn of mind, listened with open eyes and mouth and earnest attention, so Mr Tippet went on:

"The frightful consequences of such a state of things you may conceive, or rather they are utterly inconceivable. Owing to the foundations of the earth having been cut away, it is more than probable that the present coal districts of the United Kingdom will collapse, the ocean will rush in, and several of our largest counties will become salt-water lakes. Besides this, coal being the grand source of our national wealth, its sudden failure will entail national bankruptcy. The barbarians of Europe, taking advantage of our condition, will pour down upon us, and the last spark of true civilisation in our miserable world will be extinguished—the last refuge for the hunted foot of persecuted Freedom will be finally swept from the face of the earth!"

Here Mr Tippet brought the saw down on the bench with such violence, that the dog and cat started incontinently to their legs, and Willie himself was somewhat shaken.

"Now," continued Mr Tippet, utterly regardless of the sensation he had created, and wiping the perspiration from his shining head with a handful of shavings; "now, William Willders, all this may be, shall be, prevented by the adoption of the galvano-hydraulic engine, and the consequent restriction of the application of coal to the legitimate purposes of warming our dwellings and cooking our victuals. I mean to bring this matter before the Home Secretary whenever I have completed my invention, which, however, is not quite perfected.

"Then, again," continued Mr Tippet, becoming more and more enthusiastic as he observed the deep impression his explanations were making on Willie, who stood glaring at him in speechless amazement, "here you have my improved sausage-machine for converting all animal substances into excellent sausages. I hold that every animal substance is more or less good for food, and that it is a sad waste to throw away bones and hair, etcetera, etcetera, merely because these substances are unpalatable or difficult to chew. Now, my machine gets over this difficulty. You cut an animal up just as it is killed, and put it into the machine—hair, skin, bones, blood, and all—and set it in motion by turning on the galvano-hydraulic fluid. Delicious sausages are the result in about twenty minutes.

"You see my dog there—Chips I call him, because he dwells in the midst of chips and shavings; he sleeps upon chips, and if he does not exactly eat chips, he lives upon scraps which have a strong resemblance to them. The cat has no name. I am partial to the time-honoured name of 'Puss.' Besides, a cat is not worthy of a name. Physically speaking, it is only a bundle of living fur—a mere mass of soft animated nature, as Goldsmith would express it. Intellectually it is nothing—a sort of existent nonentity, a moral void on which a name would be utterly thrown away. Well, I could take these two animals, Chips and Puss, put them in here (alive, too, for there is a killing apparatus in the instrument which will effectually do away with the cruel process of slaughtering, and with its accompanying nuisances of slaughter-houses and butchers)— put them in here, I say, and in twenty minutes they would be ground up into sausages.

"I know that enemies to progress, ignorant persons and the like, will scoff at this, and say it is similar to the American machine, into one end of which you put a tree, and it comes out at the other end in the shape of ready-made furniture. But such scoffs will cease, while my invention will live. I am not bigoted, William. There may be good objections to my inventions, and great difficulties connected with them, but the objections I will answer, and the difficulties I will overcome.

"This instrument," continued Mr Tippet, pointing to a huge beam, which leant against the end of the small apartment, "is only a speculative effort of mine. It is meant to raise enormous weights, such as houses. I have long felt it to be most desirable that people should be able to raise their houses from their foundations by the strength of a few men, and convey them to other localities, either temporarily or permanently. I have not succeeded yet, but I see my way to success; and, after all, the idea is not new. You can see it partially carried out by an enterprising company in this city, whose enormous vans will remove the whole furniture of a drawing-room, almost as it stands, without packing. My chief difficulty is with the fulcrum; but that is a difficulty that met the philosopher of old. You have heard of Archimedes, William—the man who said he could make a lever big enough to move the world, if he could only get a fulcrum to rest it on. But Archimedes was weak in that point. He ought to have known that, even if he did get such a fulcrum, he would still have required another world as long as his lever, to enable him to walk out to the end of it. No, by the way, he might have walked on the lever itself! That did not occur to me before. He might even have ridden along it. Come, that's a new idea. Let me see."

In order the better to "see," Mr Tippet dropt the piece of wood from his left hand, and pressed his fingers into both eyes, so as to shut out all earthly objects, and enable him to take an undistracted survey of the chambers of his mind. Returning suddenly from the investigation, he exclaimed:

"Yes, William, I don't quite see my way to it; but I can perceive dimly the possibility of Archimedes having so formed his lever, that a line of rails might have been run along the upper side of it, from the fulcrum to the other end."

"Yes, sir," exclaimed Willie, who, having become excited, was entering eagerly into his patron's speculations, and venting an occasional remark in the height of his enthusiasm.

"Such a thing might be done," continued Mr Tippet emphatically; "a small carriage—on the galvano-hydraulic principle, of course—might run to and fro—"

"With passengers," suggested Willie.

"Well—with passengers," assented Mr Tippet, smiling. "Of course, the lever would be very large—extremely large. Yes, there might be passengers."

"An' stations along the line?" said Willie.

Mr Tippet knitted his brows.

"Ye-yes—why not?" he said slowly. "Of course, the lever would be very long, extremely long, and it might be necessary to stop the carriages on the way out. There might be breadth sufficient on the lever to plant small side stations."

"An' twenty minutes allowed for refreshments," suggested Willie.

"Why, as to that," said Mr Tippet, "if we stop at all, there could be no reasonable objection to refreshments, although it is probable we might find it difficult to get anyone sufficiently enterprising to undertake the supply of such a line; for, you know, if the lever were to slip at the fulcrum and fall—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Willie, "wouldn't there be a smash; neither!"

"The danger of people falling off, too," continued Mr Tippet, "might be prevented by railings run along the extreme edges of the lever."

"Yes," interrupted Willie, whose vivid imagination, unused to such excitement, had taken the bit in its teeth and run away with him; "an' spikes put on 'em to keep the little boys from swinging on 'em, an' gettin' into mischief. Oh! what jolly fun it would be. Only think! we'd advertise cheap excursion trains along the Arkimeedis Line, Mondays an' Toosdays. Fares, two hundred pounds, fust class. No seconds or parleys allowed for love or money. Starts from the Fuddlecrum Sta—"

"Fulcrum," said Mr Tippet, correcting.

"Fulcrum Station," resumed Willie, "at 2:30 a.m. of the mornin' precisely. Stops at the Quarter, Half-way, an' Three-quarter Stations, allowin' twenty minutes, more or less, for grub—weather permittin'."

"Your observations are quaint," said Mr Tippet, with a smile; "but there is a great deal of truth in them. No doubt, the connection of such ideas, especially as put by you, sounds a little ludicrous; but when we come to analyse them, we see their possibility, for, if a lever of the size indicated by the ancient philosopher were erected (and theoretically, the thing is possible), then the subordinate arrangements as to a line of railway and stations, etcetera, would be mere matters of detail. It might be advertised, too, that the balance of the lever would be so regulated, that, on the arrival of the train at the terminus, the world would rise (a fact which might be seen by the excursionists, by the aid of enormous telescopes, much better than by the people at home), and that, on the return of the train, the world would again sink to its ancient level.

"There would be considerable risk, no doubt," continued Mr Tippet meditatively, "of foolish young men and boys getting over the rails in sport or bravado, and falling off into the depths of illimitable profundity, but—"

"We could have bobbies stationed along the line," interrupted Willie, "an' tickets put up warnin' the passengers not to give 'em money on no account wotsomedever, on pain o' bein' charged double fare for the first offence, an' pitched over the rails into illimidibble pro-what's-'is-name for the second."

"I'll tell you what it is, William," said Mr Tippet suddenly, getting off the bench and seizing the boy's hand, "your talents would be wasted in my office. You'll come and assist me here in the workshop. I'm greatly in want of an intelligent lad who can use his hands; but, by the way, can you use your hands? Here, cut this piece of wood smooth, with that knife."

He handed Willie a piece of cross-grained wood and a blunt knife.

Willie looked at both, smiled, and shook his head.

"It would take a cleverer feller than me to do it; but I'll try."

Willie did try; after a quarter of an hour spent in vain attempts, he threw down the wood and knife exclaiming, "It's impossible."

Mr Tippet, who had been smiling cherubically, and nodding approval, said:

"I knew it was impossible, my lad, when I gave it to you, and I now know that you are both neat-handed and persevering; so, if you choose, I'll engage you on the spot to come on trial for a week. After that we will settle the remuneration. Meanwhile, shake hands again, and allow me to express to you my appreciation of the noble character of your brother, who, I understand from my sister's letter, saved a young relative of mine from the midst of imminent danger. Good-night, William, and come to me on Monday next, at nine o'clock in the morning."

Willie was somewhat perplexed at this prompt dismissal (for Mr Tippet had opened the door), especially after such a long and free-and-easy conversation, and he felt that, however much license Mr Tippet might permit, he was a man of stern will, who could not be resisted with impunity; so, although he was burning to know the object and nature of innumerable strange pieces of mechanism in the workshop, he felt constrained to make a polite bow and depart.

On his way downstairs, he heard the voices of men as if in angry disputation; and on reaching the next floor, found Mr Barret standing at the open door of his room, endeavouring to hold Ned Hooper, who was struggling violently.

"I tell you," said the latter, in a drunken voice, "that I w-will go out!"

"Come, Ned, not to-night; you can go to-morrow" said Barret soothingly, yet maintaining his hold of his friend.

"W-why not? ain't night the best time to—to—be jolly?—eh! L-me go, I shay."

He made a fierce struggle at this point; and Barret, ceasing to expostulate, seized him with a grasp that he could not resist, and dragged him forcibly, yet without unnecessary violence, into the room.

Next instant the door was shut with a bang and locked; so Willie Willders descended to the street, and turned his face homewards, moralising as he went on the evils of drink.

It was a long way to Notting Hill; but it was not long enough to enable Willie to regain his wonted nonchalance. He had seen and heard too much that night to permit of his equilibrium being restored. He pursed his mouth several times into the form of a round O, and began "Rule Britannia"; but the sounds invariably died at the part where the "charter of the land" is brought forward. He tried "The Bay of Biscay, O!" with no better success, never being able to get farther than "lightning's vivid powers," before his mind was up in the clouds, or in Mr Tippet's garret, or out on the Archimedes-Lever Railway.

Thus wandering in dreams he reached home, talked wildly to his anxious mother, and went to bed in a state of partial insanity.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A LITTLE DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT.

One night, not long after the events narrated in the last chapter, Frank Willders was standing with the fireman-in-charge in the King Street Station. He had just removed his helmet, and the perspiration on his brow showed that he had been but recently engaged in some active duty; as indeed was the case, for he had just returned from a "walk" to a fire in Whitechapel.

"It was only a small affair," said Frank, hanging up his helmet and axe, and sitting down to fill his pipe; "a low beer-shop in Brook Street; the taproom burnt out, and the rest of the house damaged by smoke. It was pretty well over before I got there, and I left half an hour after. Where are the rest o' the lads?"

"They're out wi' both engines," said Baxmore, who was busy making a memorandum on a slate.

"With both engines!" said Frank.

"Ay, both," replied Baxmore, with a laugh, as he sat down in front of the fire. "Let me see; it's now nine o'clock, so they've bin off an hour; one to Walton Street, Brompton; the other to Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. The call was the queerest I've seen for many a day. We was all sittin' here smokin' our pipes, as usual, when two fellers came to the door, full split, from opposite pints o' the compass, an' run slap into each other. They looked like gentlemen; but they was in such a state it wasn't easy to make out what sort o' fish they was. One had his coat torn and his hat gone; the other had his tile pretty well knocked down on his eyes—I s'pose by the people he run into on the way—an' both were half-mad with excitement. They both stuttered, too— that was the fun o' the thing, and they seemed to think each was takin' off the other, and got into a most awful rage. My own opinion is, that one stuttered by nature, an' the other stuttered from fright. Anyhow, they both stuttered together, and a precious mess they made of it.

"'F-F-F-Fire!' roared one.

"'F-F-F-Fire!' yelled the other.

"'Where away?' asked Mr Dale, looking quietly at the two men, who were gasping for breath.

"'B-B-B-Brompton,' 'B-B-B-Bayswater!' they shouted together; and then, turnin' fiercely on each other, the one said 'N-N-N-No!' and the other said 'N-N-N-No!' 'Now, which is it?' said Dale, 'an' be quick—do.'

"'B-B-B-Brompton!'

"'B-B-B-Bayswater!' in a breath; then says one, 'I—I s-s-say Brompton!' an' the other, he says, 'I—I s-s-say Bayswater!'

"At this they grew furious, and Dale tried to calm them and settle the question by asking the name of the street.

"'W-W-Walton S-Street!' cried one.

"'P-P-P-Porchester T-T-Terrace!' shouted the other.

"'N-N-No!' 'Y-Y-Yes!' 'N-No!' an' with that, one up fist an' hit the other a crack between the eyes. T'other returned on the nob, and then they closed.

"Before this Mr Dale had ordered out one o' the engines, an' when he heard the two streets named it occurred to him that there might be two fires, so he ordered out the other engine; and before we got the stutterers separated both engines were off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater; but whether there are two fires or no is yet to be seen."

Just as Baxmore concluded, the rattle of a returning engine was heard. Next moment it dashed up to the door, and the firemen, leaping off, streamed into the station, where; amid much comment and some laughter at the scene they had so recently witnessed, they hung up their helmets and crowded round the fire.

"So it was in Brompton, after all," said Jack Williams, stirring the coals; "but it was a small affair in a baker's shop, and we soon got it out."

"Is the other engine back?" inquired Moxey.

"Here she comes to answer for herself," said Mason, as the second engine dashed up to the station, and the men were joined by their comrades.

"We've got it out," said Dale, sitting down before the desk to enter the particulars in his diary; "it was a private house, and well alight when we got there, but the Paddington engine was playing on it, and we soon got it under."

"Faix, it's well them stutterers didn't kape us longer, else the whole house would have bin burnt out intirely," observed Joe Corney, binding up a slight wound in his thumb, which he had received from a splinter.

Most of the men were more or less begrimed with charcoal and smoke, and otherwise bore marks of their recent sharp though short skirmish, but none of them deemed it necessary to remove these evidences of devotion to duty until they had refreshed themselves with a pipe.

"Were there people in the house?" inquired Frank.

"Ay, but Pickford was there with the escape, an' got 'em all out before we came up," said one.

"Pickford said he couldn't help laughing after he got 'em out, at the remembrance o' their faces. When he first went in they was all sound asleep in the top floor, for the smoke was only beginnin' to show there, an' the surprise they got when he jump in among 'em an' shouted was wonderful to behold."

"Not so wonderful," observed Bill Moxey, "as the surprise I seed a whole man-o'-war's crew get by consequence o' the shout o' one of her own men."

"When was that? Let's hear about it, Bill," said Corney, stuffing down the tobacco in his pipe, and firing a battery of cloudlets into the air.

"We was in the Red Sea at the time," said Moxey, clearing his throat, "layin' at anchor, and a precious hot time we had of it. There was never a cloud a'most in the sky, and the sun was nigh hot enough to fry the decks off the ship. Cook said he'd half a mind to try to roast a junk o' beef at it, but I never heard that he managed that. We slep' on deck o' nights, 'cause you might as well have tried to sleep in a baker's oven as sleep below. The thing that troubled us most at that time was a tiger we had on board. It did kick up such a shindy sometimes! We thought it would break its cage an make a quid o' some of us. I forget who sent it to us—p'raps it was the Pasha of Egypt; anyhow we weren't sorry when the order was given to put the tiger ashore.

"Well, the same day that we got rid o' the tiger we was sent aboard a Malay ship to flog one o' the men. He'n bin up to some mischief, an' his comrades were afraid, I s'pose, to flog him; and as the offence he had committed was against us somehow (I never rightly understood it myself), some of us went aboard the Malay ship, tied him up, an' gave him two dozen.

"That night the whole ship's company slep' on deck as usual—officers as well—all but the cap'n, who had gone ashore. It was a tremendous hot night, an' a good deal darker than usual. There was one man in the ship named Wilson; but we called him Bob Roarer, because of a habit he had of speakin' an' sometimes roarin' in his sleep. Bob lay between me an' the purser that night, an' we slep' on all right till it was getting pretty late, though there was two or three snorers that got their noses close to the deck an' kep' up a pretty fair imitation of a brass band. Suddenly Bob began to dream, or took a nightmare or somethin', for he hit straight out with both fists, givin' the purser a tap on the nob with his left, an' diggin' his right into my bread-basket with such good will that he nearly knocked all the wind out o' me, at the same time he uttered a most appallin' yell.

"The confusion that followed is past description.

"Some of us thought it was the tiger had broke loose,—forgettin' that it had been sent ashore. Bob sneaked off the moment he found what he'd done, and the purser, thinkin' it was pirates, grabbed the first he could lay hold of by the throat, and that was me, so to it we went tooth an' nail, for I had no notion who was pitchin' into me, it was so dark. Two of the men in their fright sprang up the main shrouds. Two others, who were asleep in the main-top, were awoke by the row, looked down on the starboard side, an' saw the two comin' up. Thinking it was the friends of the Malay who had been flogged coming to be revenged, they ran down the port shrouds like mad, and one o' them rushed along the port-deck, stickin' his feet into the bread-baskets of all the sleepers that hadn't been woke by the yell, rousin' them up an' causin' them to roar like bo'suns. The row woke the cook, who was a nigger; he, thinkin' it was a sudden jollification, seized one o' the coppers an' began to beat it with an iron spoon. This set up the quartermaster, who rushed along the starboard deck, trampin' upon the breasts and faces of all and sundry. The gunner thought it was the tiger, and took to the top of the awning; while the doctor and bo's'n's-mate they jumped over the side, and hung on by ropes up to their waists in water!

"At the worst o' the confusion the cap'n came aboard. We didn't see him, but he ordered silence, an' after a while we discovered that there was no reason whatever for the shindy. It wasn't till a long time afterwards that we found out the real cause of the false alarm; but the only man that got no fright that night, and kep' quite cool, was the man who set it all agoin'—Bob Roarer."

"What a feller you are, Bill, to talk blarney," said Corney, rising and knocking the ashes out of his pipe; "sure, aither yer father or yer mother must have bin an Irishman."

"Blarney or no blarney, them's the facts," said Moxey, yawning, "an' I'm off to bed."

"Ditto," said Frank, stretching himself.

The two tressels, which were always removed from the room during the day, had been brought in, and were by this time occupied by Mason and Williams, whose duty it was to keep watch that night. Baxmore, the sub-engineer of the station, sat down at the desk to read over the events of the day, and the others rose to leave.

"By the way, Baxmore," said Dale, "what was that false alarm at 2 p.m. when I was down at Watling Street?"

"Only a chemist in Kensington, who, it seems, is mad after makin' experiments, and all but blew the roof off his house with one of 'em."

"Ah! only smoke, I suppose," said Dale.

"That was all," said Baxmore, "but there was sitch a lot of it that some fellows thought it was a fire, an' came tearin' down here wi' the news, so we had a ride for nothing."

"If I'm not mistaken you'll have a ride for something ere long," observed Dale, turning his head aside, while he listened attentively. "Hold on, lads, a minute!"

There was a sound of wheels in the distance, as if some vehicle were approaching at a furious pace. On it came, louder and louder, until it turned the corner of the street, and the horses' feet rattled on the stones as they were pulled up sharp at the station. Instantly the bell was rung violently, and a severe kicking was bestowed on the door.

It is needless to say that the summons was answered promptly. Some of the men quietly resumed the helmets they had just hung up, well knowing that work lay before them.

A cabman darted through the door the instant it was opened, shouting—

"Fire!"

"Where?" asked Dale.

"Forth Street, Holborn, sir!" cried the cabman. Again, for the third time that night, the order was given to "get her out." While this was being done, Baxmore took a leathern purse from the cupboard, and gave the cabman a shilling for being first to "give the call."

As the men were already accoutred, the engine left the station on this occasion in less than five minutes. The distance was short, so the pace was full speed, and in an incredibly short space of time they drew up in front of a large, handsome shop, from the first-floor windows of which thick smoke and a few forked flames were issuing.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

WILD DOINGS AND DARING DEEDS.

Quick though they were, however, in reaching the scene of the fire, the escape was there before them. It had a shorter way to travel, and was already pitched, with its head resting against a window of the second floor, and the fly ladder raised to the third.

The people who had crowded round the building at the first alarm of fire, were looking on as if in suspense, and the firemen knew that Conductor Forest, or one of his lion-hearted comrades, was inside, doing his noble and dangerous work. But they had no time to pay attention to what was going on.

While some of the firemen got the engine into play, the others ran in a body to the front-door of the burning house, the lower part of which was a coach-builder's warehouse. It was a heavy double door, locked and barred, and the owner had not yet arrived with the key. It was evident that the fire had originated in one of the upper floors, for there was no light in the wareroom.

"Get the pole-axe," said Dale, as soon as he found the door was fast.

Frank Willders sprang off at the word, and returned with an axe of the largest size attached to a handle nearly four feet long.

"Drive it in, Willders," said Dale.

Frank's powerful blows at once thundered on the massive door; but they fell on it in vain, for it was unusually strong. Seeing this, Dale ran back to the engine, and got out the pole.

"Come, lay hold some of you!" said he. Immediately eight firemen, Frank and Dale being at the front, charged the door like a thunderbolt with this extemporised battering-ram. It gave way with a prodigious crash, and the whole party fell over each other into the warehouse.

There was a burst of laughter from themselves, as well as from the crowd; but in another moment they were up and swarming through the premises among the smoke, searching for a point of attack.

"Send the branch up here," cried Mason, coughing violently.

"Sure, my peepers is out entirely!" gasped Corney, rushing to the window for air; while showers of water fell on his head, for the engine was already in full play.

Just then there was a noise outside, as if men were disputing violently. Dale guessed at once what it was, and ran down the staircase, calling out as he passed: "Here, Willders, Corney, Baxmore, lend a hand, will you?"

On reaching the engine, they found about a dozen roughs of the lowest character, disputing fiercely as to which of them was to pump the engine! As each man received one shilling an hour for this work, it became a desirable means of earning a good night's wages to these broad-shouldered rascals; who, in their anger, and in spite of the police, and the solitary fireman who superintended the engine, had actually caused the men already at work to cease pumping.

We may remark in passing, that this would not have been the case, but for the police force, from some unknown cause, being not very strong at that fire, and having an excited and somewhat turbulent crowd to keep in order. As a general rule, the police of London are of the most essential service at fires; and not a few of them have obtained the medals of the Society for the protection of life from fire, and other rewards for gallantry displayed in saving life at the risk of their own lives.

On the present occasion, however, the few policemen present could barely hold their ground against such a band of stalwart desperadoes, so the firemen came to the rescue. In the front of the roughs stood a man who was stronger made and better dressed than the others. He had not been pugnacious at first; but having got involved in the riot, he struck out with the rest. Dale sprang at this man, who was none other than the half-nautical individual already introduced to the reader by the name of Gorman, and launched a left-hander at his head; but Gorman stepped aside, and one of his comrades was felled instead. At this, the others made a rush in a body at Dale; but Frank, Corney, and Baxmore come up at the moment, and each knocked down a man. Instantly Dale seized an instrument from the engine, named a "preventer," like a large boat-hook, and, raising it at the full stretch of his powerful arms, he brought it swoop down on the heads of the roughs—six of whom, including Gorman, measured their length on the ground.

Meanwhile, Bill Moxey and Jack Williams, who had charge of the branch— which is considered the post of honour at a fire—had paid no attention whatever to this little episode; but the instant the order was given, had conveyed their branch into the building, and up to the first floor, where they thought they could reach the fire more directly; for it is an axiom in fire brigades to get into a burning building without delay, and attack the fire at its heart.

They got the hose up a staircase, and began to play through a doorway at the head of it; but, to their surprise, did not make any impression whatever. Two other engines, however, were at work by this time—so the fire was kept in check.

"Something wrong here," said Moxey, speaking with difficulty, owing to the dense smoke.

Owing to the same cause, it was impossible to see what was wrong.

"I'll go in an' see," said Mason, dropping on his hands and knees, and creeping into the room with his mouth as close to the ground as possible. This he did, because in a room on fire there is always a current of comparatively fresh air at the floor.

Presently the sound of Mason's small hatchet was heard cutting up woodwork, and in a few seconds he rushed out almost choking.

"There," said he, "stick the branch through that hole. You've bin playin' all this time up agin' a board partition!"

Moxey and Williams advanced, put the branch through the partition, and the result was at once obvious in the diminution of smoke and increase of steam.

While these incidents were occurring outside and inside the building, the crowd was still waiting in breathless expectation for the re-appearance of Conductor Forest of the fire-escape; for the events just narrated, although taking a long time to tell, were enacted in a few minutes.

Presently Forest appeared at the window of the second floor with two infants in his arms. Instead of sending these down the canvas trough of the escape in the usual way—at the risk of their necks, for they were very young—he clasped them to his breast, and plunging into it himself head-foremost, descended in that position, checking his speed by spreading out his knees against the sides of the canvas. Once again he sprang up the escape amid the cheers of the people, and re-entered the window.

At that moment the attention of the crowd was diverted by the sudden appearance of a man at one of the windows of the first floor.