He was all on fire, and had evidently been aroused to his awful position unexpectedly, for he was in such confusion that he did not observe the fire-escape at the other window. After shouting wildly for a few seconds, and tossing his arms in the air, he leaped out and came to the ground with stunning violence. Two policemen extinguished the fire that was about him, and then, procuring a horse-cloth lifted him up tenderly and carried him away.

It may perhaps surprise the reader that this man was not roused sooner by the turmoil and noise that was going on around him, but it is a fact that heavy sleepers are sometimes found by the firemen sound asleep, and in utter ignorance of what has been going on, long after a large portion of the houses in which they dwell have been in flames.

When Forest entered the window the second time he found the smoke thicker than before, and had some difficulty in groping his way—for smoke that may be breathed with comparative ease is found to be very severe on the eyes. He succeeded, however, in finding a woman lying insensible on the floor of the room above. In carrying her to the window he fell over a small child, which was lying on the floor in a state of insensibility. Grasping the latter with his left hand, he seized its night-dress with his teeth, and, with the woman on his shoulder, appeared on the top of the fly-ladder, which he descended in safety.

The cheers and shouts of the crowd were deafening as Forest came down; but the woman, who had begun to recover, said that her brother was in a loft above the room in which she had been found.

The Conductor, therefore, went up again, got on the roof of the house, broke through the tiles, and with much difficulty pulled the man through the aperture and conveyed him safely to the ground. [See note 1].

The firemen were already at Forest's heels, and as soon as he dragged the man through the hole in the roof, Frank and Baxmore jumped into it with the branch, and immediately attacked the fire.

By this time all the engines of the district in which the fire had occurred, and one from each of the two adjoining districts, had arrived, and were in full play, and one by one the individual men from the distant stations came dropping in and reported themselves to Dale, Mr Braidwood not being present on that occasion. There was thus a strong force of fresh firemen on the ground, and these, as they came up, were sent—in military parlance—to relieve skirmishers. The others were congregated in front of the door, moving quietly about, looking on and chatting in undertones.

Such of the public as arrived late at the fire no doubt formed a very erroneous impression in regard to these men, for not only did they appear to be lounging about doing nothing, but they were helped by one of their number to a glass of brandy—such of them at least as chose to take it. But those who had witnessed the fire from the beginning knew that these men had toiled, with every nerve and muscle strained, for upwards of an hour in the face of almost unbearable heat, half-suffocated by smoke, and drenched by hot water. They were resting now, and they had much need of rest, for some of them had come out of the burning house almost fainting from exposure to heat and smoke. Indeed, Mason had fainted; but the fresh air soon revived him, and after a glass of brandy he recovered sufficiently to be fit for duty again in half an hour.

Frank and Baxmore were the last to be relieved. When two fresh men came up and took the branch they descended the stairs, and a strange descent it was. The wooden stair, or flight of open steps, which they had to descend first, was burnt to charcoal, and looked as if it would fall to pieces with a touch.

"I hope it'll bear," said Frank to Baxmore, who went first.

"Bear or not bear, we must go down," said Baxmore.

He went unhesitatingly upon it, and although the steps bent ominously, there was enough of sound wood to sustain him.

The second stair, also of wood, had not been quite so much charred; but so great was the quantity of water poured continuously into the house, that it formed a regular water-course of the staircase, down which heaps of plaster and bricks and burnt rubbish had been washed, and had stuck here and there, forming obstructions on which the water broke and round which it roared in the form of what might have been a very respectable mountain-torrent, with this striking difference, that the water which rushed down it was hot, in consequence of its having passed through such glowing materials.

The lower staircase was a stone one—the worst of all stairs in a fire, owing to its liability to crack at its connection with the wall, from the combined influence of heat and cold water. Just as the two men reached the head of it, it fell, without warning, in a mass of ruins.

"Never mind," said Baxmore, "the fire-escape is still at the window."

So saying, he ran through the smoke and reached it. Frank was about to follow, when he observed a shut door. Without having any definite intention, he laid hold of the handle, and found that it was locked on the inside—he knew that, for he saw the end of the key sticking through the key-hole. At once he threw his weight on it, and burst it open. To his amazement, he found a little old lady sitting quietly, but in great trepidation, in an easy-chair, partially clothed in very scanty garments, which she had evidently thrown on in great haste.

"Go away, young man!" she screamed, drawing a shawl tightly round her. "Go away, I say! how dare you, sir?"

"Why, ma'am," cried Frank, striding up to her; "the house is on fire! Come, I'll carry you out."

"No—No!" she cried, pushing him resolutely away. "What! carry me—me out thus! I know it's on fire. Leave me, sir, I command you—I entreat you; I will die rather than appear as I am—in public."

The poor lady finished off with a loud shriek; for Frank, seeing how matters stood, and knowing there was not a moment to lose, plucked a blanket from the bed, overwhelmed her in it, and exclaiming, "Forgive me, ma'am," lifted her gently in his arms, bore her through the smoke, down the escape, to the street; carried her into a neighbouring house (the door of which was opportunely open), and laid her like a bundle on one of the beds, where he left her, with strict injunctions to the people of the house to take care of her! Frank then went out to rejoin his comrades, and refreshed himself with a glass of beer; while Baxmore, being a teetotaller, recruited his energies with a glass of water.

By this time the fire had been pretty well subdued; but there were some parts smouldering about the roof and upper floor, that rendered it necessary to keep the engines going, while the firemen hunted their foe from room to room, and corner to corner—extinguishing him everywhere; not, however, before he had completely gutted the whole house, with the exception of part of the ground floor.

"Keep away from the walls, men," said Dale, coming up to the group, who were resting.

At that moment there was a cry raised that some one was in the cellars.

At the word, Baxmore ran into the house, and descended to the basement. There was little smoke here; but from the roof, water was running down in a thick, warm shower, which drenched him in a few minutes. He ran through the whole place, but found no one, until he opened the door of a closet, when he discovered two old women who had taken refuge there; one being deaf and the other lame, as her crutches testified. They were up to the knees in water, and the same element was pouring in continuous streams on their heads—yet, like the old lady up-stairs, they refused to move or be moved.

Finding that persuasion was useless, Baxmore ran up for a horse-cloth, and, returning, threw it over the head of the deaf old woman, whom he bore, kicking violently, into the street. The other was carried out in the same fashion—only that she screamed violently, being unable to kick.

Soon after that, the fire was completely extinguished, and the engines and men returned to their several stations, leaving London once again in comparative repose.

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Note 1. It is perhaps right to state here, that a deed similar to this in nearly every point was performed by Conductor Samuel Wood, a member of the London Fire-Escape Brigade, for which he received a testimonial signed by the then Lord Mayor, and a silver watch with 20 pounds from the inhabitants of Whitechapel. Wood saved nearly 200 lives by his own personal exertions. Many of his brave comrades have also done deeds that are well worthy of record, but we have not space to do more than allude to them here.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

JOE CORNEY'S ADVENTURE WITH GHOSTS.

When we said that the firemen returned to their respective stations, it must not be supposed that the house which had been burnt was left in forlorn wretchedness. No; one of the firemen remained to watch over it, and guard against the upstarting of any sneaking spark that might have managed to conceal itself.

The man selected for this duty was Joe Corney.

Unfortunately for Joe, this was the only part of a fireman's duty that he did not relish.

Joe Corney was, both by nature and education, very superstitious. He believed implicitly in ghosts, and knew an innumerable host of persons, male and female, who had seen people who said they had seen ghosts. He was too honest to say he had ever seen a ghost himself; but he had been "very near seein' wan two or three times," and he lived in perpetual expectation and dread of meeting one face to face before he died. Joe was as brave as a lion, and faced danger, and sometimes even what appeared to be certain death, with as much unflinching courage as the bravest of his comrades. Once, in particular, he had walked with the branch in his hands along the burning roof of a tottering warehouse, near the docks, in order to gain a point from which he could play on the flames so as to prevent them spreading to the next warehouse, and so check a fire which might have easily become one of the "great fires of London."

Joe was therefore a man who could not be easily frightened; yet Joe trembled in his shoes when he had the most distant prospect of meeting with a ghost!

There was no help for it, however. He had been appointed to watch the ruin; and, being a man who cherished a strong sense of duty, he set himself doggedly to make the most of his circumstances.

It was past one o'clock when the fire was finally extinguished. A few night-birds and late revellers still hung about it, as if in the hope that it would burst forth again, and afford them fresh excitement; but before two o'clock, everyone had gone away, and Joe was left alone with his "preventer" and lantern. Even the policeman on the beat appeared to avoid him; for, although he passed the ruin at regular intervals in his rounds, he did not stop at it beyond a few moments, to see that the fireman's lantern was burning and all right.

"Corney, me lad," said Joe to himself, "it's bad luck has befallen ye this night; but face yer luck like a man now, and shame it."

Encouraging himself thus, he grasped his preventer, and pulled about the debris in various places of which he had some suspicion; but the engines had done their work so effectually that not a spark remained. Then Joe walked up and down, and in and out for an hour; studied the half-consumed pictures that still hung on the walls of one of the lower rooms, which had not been completely destroyed; moralised on the dire confusion and ruin that could be accomplished in so short a space of time; reflected on the probable condition of the unfortunates who had been burnt out; on the mutability of human affairs in general, and wondered what his "owld mother" would think of him, if she saw him in his forlorn situation.

This latter thought caused his mind to revert to ghosts; but he was comforted by hearing the slow, distant foot-fall of the policeman. On it came, not unlike the supposed step of an unearthly visitant, until the guardian of the night stood revealed before him on the other side of the road.

"It's a cowld night intirely," cried Corney.

"It is," responded the policeman.

"How goes the inimy?" inquired the fireman.

"Just gone three," replied the other.

The policeman's voice, although gruff, was good-humoured and hearty; but he was evidently a strict disciplinarian, for he uttered no other word, and passed on.

"Faix, I'm gettin' slaipy," remarked Joe to himself, with a loud yawn. "I'll go and rest a bit."

So saying, he re-entered the ruin, and with the aid of his lantern sought about for the least uncomfortable apartment on the ground floor. He selected one which was comparatively weather-tight. That is to say, only one of the windows had been dashed out, and the ceiling was entire, with the exception of a hole about four feet wide, through which the charred beams above could be seen depicted against the black sky. There was about an inch of water on the floor; but this was a small matter, for Joe's boots were thick and strong. The door, too, had been burst off its hinges, and lay on the floor; but Joe could raise this, and place it in its original position.

The room had been a parlour and there were several damaged prints hanging on the walls, besides a quantity of detached paper hanging from them. Most of the furniture had been removed at the commencement of the fire; but a few broken articles remained, and one big old easy-chair, which had either been forgotten, or deemed unworthy of removal, by the men of the Salvage Corps. [See note 1.]

Joe wheeled the chair to the fireplace—not that there was any fire in it; on the contrary, it was choked up with fallen bricks and mortar, and the hearth was flooded with water; but, as Joe remarked to himself, "it felt more homelike an' sociable to sit wid wan's feet on the finder!"

Having erected the door in front of its own doorway, Joe leaned his preventer against the wall, placed his lantern on the chimney-piece, and sat down to meditate. He had not meditated long, when the steady draught of air from the window at his back began to tell upon him.

"Och! but it's a cowld wind," said he. "I'll try the other side. There's nothin' like facin' wan's inimies."

Acting on this idea, he changed his position, turning his face to the window and his back to the door.

"Well," he remarked on sitting down again, "there's about as much draught from the door; but, sure, ye've improved yer sitivation, Corney, for haven't ye the illigant prospect of over the way through the windy?"

Not long after this, Joe's mind became much affected with ghostly memories. This condition was aggravated by an intense desire to sleep, for the poor man had been hard worked that day, and stood much in need of repose. He frequently fell asleep, and frequently awoke. On falling asleep, his helmet performed extremely undignified gyrations. On awaking, he always started, opened his eyes very wide, looked round inquiringly, then smiled, and resumed a more easy position. But, awake or asleep, his thoughts ran always in the same channel.

During one of those waking moments, Joe heard a sound which rooted him to his seat with horror; and would doubtless have caused his hair to stand on end, if the helmet would have allowed it. The sound was simple enough in itself, however; being slight, slow, and regular, and was only horrible in Joe's mind, because of his being utterly unable to account for it, or to conceive what it could be.

Whatever the sound was, it banished sleep from his eyes for at least a quarter of an hour. At last, unable to stand the strain of uncertainty, he arose, drew his hatchet, took down his lantern, and, coughing loudly and sternly—as though to say:

"Have a care, I'm coming!"—removed the door and went cautiously into the passage, where the sound appeared to come from. It did not cease on his appearing; but went on slowly and steadily, and louder than before. It appeared to be at his very elbow; yet Joe could see nothing, and a cold perspiration broke out on him.

"Och! av I could only see it!" he gasped.

Just as he said this he did see it, for a turn of his lantern revealed the fact that a drop of water fell regularly from one of the burnt beams upon a large sheet of paper which had been torn from the passage wall. This, resting on the irregular rubbish, formed a sort of drum, which gave forth a hollow sound.

"Ah, then, but ye are a goose, Joe Corney, me boy!" said the fireman, as he turned away with an amiable smile and resumed his seat after replacing the door.

About this time the wind began to rise, and came in irregular gusts. At each gust the door was blown from the wall an inch or so, and fell back with a noise that invariably awoke Joe with a start. He looked round each time quickly; but as the door remained quiet he did not discover the cause of his alarm. After it had done this several times Joe became, so to speak, desperately courageous.

"Git out wid ye!" he cried angrily on being startled again, "wasn't the last wan all a sham? an' sure ye're the same. Go 'long in pace—an' goodnight!"

As he said this the over-taxed man fell asleep; at the same moment a heavy gust of wind drove the door in altogether, and dashed it down on his head. Fortunately, being somewhat charred, the panel that struck his helmet was driven out, so that Joe came by no greater damage than the fright, which caused his heart to bound into his throat, for he really believed that the ghost had got him at last!

Relieving himself of the door, which he laid on the floor lest it should play him the same prank over again, Joe Corney once more settled himself in the easy-chair and resolved to give his mind to meditation. Just then the City clocks pealed forth the hour of four o'clock.

This is perhaps the quietest hour of the twenty-four in London. Before this most of the latest revellers have gone home, and few of the early risers are moving.

There was one active mind at work at that hour, however—namely, that of Gorman—who, after recovering from the blow given him by Dale, went to his own home on the banks of the Thames, in the unaristocratic locality of London Bridge.

Gorman owned a small boat, and did various kinds of business with it. But Gorman's occupations were numerous and not definite. He was everything by turns, and nothing long. When visible to the outward eye (and that wasn't often), his chief occupations were loafing about and drinking. On the present occasion he drank a good deal more than usual, and lay down to sleep, vowing vengeance against firemen in general, and Dale in particular.

Two or three hours later he awoke, and leaving his house, crossed London Bridge, and wended his way back to the scene of the fire without any definite intention, but with savage desires in his breast. He reached it just at that point where Joe Corney had seated himself to meditate, as above described.

Joe's powers of meditation were not great at any time. At that particular time they were exerted in vain, for his head began to sway backward and forward and to either side, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

Waiting in the shadow of a doorway until the policeman should pass out of sight and hearing, and cautiously stepping over the debris that encumbered the threshold of the burnt house, Gorman peeped into the room, where the light told him that some one kept watch. Great was his satisfaction and grim his smile when he saw that a stalwart fireman sat there apparently asleep. Being only able to see his back, he could not make certain who it was,—but from the bulk of the man and breadth of the shoulders he concluded that it was Dale. Anyhow it was one of his enemies, and that was sufficient, for Gorman's nature was of that brutal kind that he would risk his life any day in order to gratify his vengeance, and it signified little to him which of his enemies fell in his way, so long as it was one of them.

Taking up a brick from the floor, he raised himself to his full height, and dashed it down on the head of the sleeping man. Just at that moment Corney's nodding head chanced to fall forward, and the brick only hit the comb of his helmet, knocking it over his eyes. Next moment he was grappling with Gorman.

As on previous occasions, Joe's heart had leaped to his throat, and that the ghost was upon him "at last" he had no manner of doubt; but no sooner did he feel the human arm of Gorman and behold his face than his native courage returned with a bound. He gave his antagonist a squeeze that nearly crushed his ribs together, and at the same time hurled him against the opposite wall. But Gorman was powerful and savage. He recovered himself and sprang like a tiger on Joe, who received him in a warm embrace with an Irish yell!

The struggle of the two strong men was for a few moments terrible, but not doubtful, for Joe's muscles had been brought into splendid training at the gymnastics. He soon forced Gorman down on one knee; but at the same moment a mass of brickwork which had been in a toppling condition, and was probably shaken down by the violence of their movements, fell on the floor above, broke through it, and struck both men to the ground.

Joe lay stunned and motionless for a few seconds, for a beam had hit him on the head; but Gorman leaped up and made off a moment or two before the entrance of the policeman, who had run back to the house on hearing Joe's war-whoop.

It is needless to add that Joe spent the remainder of his vigil that night in an extremely wakeful condition, and that he gave a most graphic account of his adventure with the ghosts on his return to the station!

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Note 1. The Salvage Corps is a body of men appointed by the insurance offices to save and protect goods at fires, and otherwise to watch over their interests. They wear a uniform and helmets, something like those of the firemen, and generally follow close in their wake—in their own vans—when fires break out.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A NEW PHASE OF LIFE.

"Mother," said Master William Willders one night to his parent, as he sat at supper—which meal consisted of bread and milk; "he's the jolliest old feller, that Mr Tippet, I ever came across."

"I'm glad you like him, Willie," said Mrs Willders, who was busy patching the knees of a pair of small unmentionables; "but I wish, dear, that you would not use slang in your speech, and remember that fellow is not spelt with an e-r at the end of it."

"Come now, mother, don't you go an' get sarcastic. It don't suit you; besides, there's no occasion for it,—for I do my best to keep it down, but I'm so choke full of it that a word or two will spurt up now and then in spite o' me."

Mrs Willders smiled and continued her patching; Willie grinned and continued his supper.

"Mother," said Willie, after an interval of silence.

"Well, my son?"

"What d'ye think the old feller—ah! I mean fellow—is up to just now?"

"I don't know, Willie."

"He's inventin' a calc'latin' machine, as is to do anythin' from simple addition to fractions, an' he says if it works well he'll carry it on to algebra an' mathematics, up to the fizmal calc'lus, or somethin' o' that sort. Oh, you've no notion how he strains himself at it. He sits down in his shirt-sleeves at a writin'-table he's got in a corner, an' tears away at the little hair he has on the sides of his head (I do believe he tore it all off the top with them inventions), then he bangs up an' seizes his tools, and shouts, 'Look here, Willie, hold on!' an' goes sawin' and chisellin' and hammerin' away like a steam-engine. He's all but bu'st himself over that calc'latin' machine, and I'm much afraid that he'll clap Chips into the sausage-machine some day, just to see how it works. I hope he won't, for Chips an' I are great friends, though we've only bin a month together."

"I hope he's a good man," said Mrs Willders thoughtfully.

"Well, I'm sure he must be!" cried Willie with enthusiasm, "for he is very kind to me, and also to many poor folk that come about him regularly. I'm gettin' to know their faces now, and when to expect 'em. He always takes 'em into his back room—all sorts, old men and old women an' children, most of 'em seedy enough, but some of 'em well off to look at. What he says to 'em I don't know, but they usually come out very grave, an go away thankin' him, and sayin' they won't forget his advice. If the advice is to come back soon they certainly don't forget it! And he's a great philosopher, too, mother, for he often talks to me about my int'lec's. He said jist t'other day, 'Willie,' said he, 'get into a habit o' usin' yer brains, my boy. The Almighty put us into this world well-made machines, intended to be used in all our parts. Now, you'll find thousands of people who use their muscles and neglect their brains, and thousands of others who use their brains and neglect their muscles. Both are wrong, boy; we're machines, lad— wonderful machines—and the machines won't work well if they're not used all over.' Don't that sound grand, mother?"

Willie might have received an answer if he had waited for one, but he was too impatient, and went rattling on.

"And who d'ye think, mother, came to see old Tippet the other day, but little Cattley, the clown's boy. You remember my tellin' you about little Cattley and the auction, don't you?"

"Yes, Willie."

"Well, he came, and just as he was goin' away I ran out an' asked him how the fairy was. 'She's very ill,' he said, shakin' his head, and lookin' so mournful that I had not the heart to ask more. But I'm goin' to see them, mother."

"That's right, my boy," said Mrs Willders, with a pleased look; "I like to hear you talk of going to see people in distress. 'Blessed are they that consider the poor,' Willie."

"Oh, as to that, you know, I don't know that they are poor. Only I feel sort o' sorry for 'em, somehow, and I'm awful anxious to see a real live fairy, even though she is ill."

"When are you going?" inquired Mrs Willders.

"To-morrow night, on my way home."

"Did you look in at Frank's lodging in passing to-night?"

"Yes, I did, and found that he was in the station on duty again. It wasn't a bad sprain, you see, an' it'll teach him not to go jumpin' out of a first-floor window again."

"He couldn't help it," said the widow. "You know his escape by the stair had been cut off, and there was no other way left."

"No other way!" cried Willie; "why didn't he drop? He's so proud of his strength, is Blazes, that he jumped off-hand a' purpose to show it! Ha! he'd be the better of some o' my caution. Now, mother, I'm off to bed."

"Get the Bible, then," said Mrs Willders.

Willie got up and fetched a large old family Bible from a shelf, and laid it on the table before his mother, who read a chapter and prayed with her son; after which Willie gave her one of his "roystering" kisses and went to bed.

The lamps had been lighted for some time next night, and the shop-windows were pouring forth their bright rays, making the streets appear as light as day, when Willie found himself in the small disreputable street near London Bridge in which Cattley the clown dwelt.

Remembering the directions given to him by little Jim Cattley, he soon found the underground abode near the burnt house, the ruins of which had already been cleared away and a considerable portion of a new tenement erected.

If the stair leading to the clown's dwelling was dark, the passage at the foot of it was darker; and as Willie groped his way carefully along, he might have imagined it to be a place inhabited only by rats or cats, had not gleams of light, and the sound of voices from sundry closed doors, betokened the presence of human beings. Of the compound smells peculiar to the place, those of beer and tobacco predominated.

At the farther end of this passage, there was an abrupt turn to the left, which brought the boy unexpectedly to a partially open door, where a scene so strange met his eyes that he involuntarily stood still and gazed.

In a corner of the room, which was almost destitute of furniture, a little girl, wan, weary, and thin, lay on a miserable pallet, with scanty covering over her. Beside her stood Cattley—not, as when first introduced, in a seedy coat and hat; but in full stage costume—with three balls on his head, white face, triangular roses on his cheeks, and his mouth extended outward and upward at the corners, by means of red paint. Little Jim sat on the bed beside his sister, clad in pink skin-tights, with cheeks and face similar to his father, and a red crest or comb of worsted on his head.

"Ziza, darling, are you feeling better, my lamb?" said the elder clown, with a gravity of expression in his real mouth that contrasted strangely with the expression conveyed by the painted corners.

"No, father, not much; but perhaps I'm gettin' better, though I don't feel it," said the sweet, faint voice of the child, as she opened her large hollow eyes, and looked upward.

"So, that's the fairy!" thought Willie sadly, as he gazed on the child's beautiful though wasted features.

"We'll have done d'rectly, darling," said the clown tenderly; "only one more turn, and then we'll leave you to rest quietly for some hours. Now, then, here we are again!" he added, bounding into the middle of the room with a wild laugh. "Come along, Jim, try that jump once more."

Jim did not speak; but pressing his lips to his sister's brow, leaped after his sire, who was standing an a remarkably vigorous attitude, with his legs wide apart and his arms akimbo, looking back over his shoulder.

"Here we go," cried Jim in a tiny voice, running up his father's leg and side, stepping lightly on his shoulder, and planting one foot on his head.

"Jump down," said the clown gravely.

Jim obeyed.

"That won't do, Jim. You must do it all in one run; no pausing on the way—but, whoop! up you go, and both feet on my head at once. Don't be afeard; you can't tumble, you know."

"I'm not afeard, father," said Jim; "but I ain't quite springy in my heart to-night. Stand again and see if I don't do it right off."

Cattley the elder threw himself into the required attitude; and Cattley junior, rushed at him, ran up him as a cat runs up a tree, and in a moment was standing on his father's head with his arms extended. Whoop!—next moment he was turning round in the air; and whoop! in another moment he was standing on the ground, bowing respectfully to a supposed audience.

To Jim's immense amazement, the supposed audience applauded him heartily; and said, "Bravyo! young 'un," as it stepped into the room, in the person of William Willders.

"Why! who may you be?" inquired the clown senior, stepping up to the intruder.

Before Willie could answer the clown junior sprang on his father's shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Whatever he said, the result was an expression of benignity and condescension on the clown's face—as far as paint would allow of such expression.

"Glad to meet you, Master Willders," he said. "Proud to know anyone connected with T. Tippet, Esquire, who's a trump. Give us your flipper. What may be the object of your unexpected, though welcome visit to this this subterraneous grotto, which may be said to be next door to the coral caves, where the mermaids dwell."

"Yes, and there's one o' the mermaids singing," remarked the clown junior, with a comical leer, as a woman's voice was heard in violent altercation with some one. "She's a sayin' of her prayers now; beseechin' of her husband to let her have her own way."

Willie explained that, having had the pleasure of meeting with Jim at an auction sale some weeks ago, he had called to renew his acquaintance; and Jim said he remembered the incident—and that, if he was not mistaken, a desire to see a live fairy in plain clo'se, with her wings off, had something to do with his visit.

"Here she is;—by the way, what's your name?"

"Bill Willders."

"Here she is, Bill; this is the fairy," he said, in quite an altered tone, as he went to the bed, and took one of his sister's thin hands in both of his. "Ziza, this is the feller I told ye of, as wanted to see you, dear; b'longs to Mr Tippet."

Ziza smiled faintly, as she extended her hand to Willie, who took it and pressed it gently.

Willie felt a wonderfully strong sensation within his heart as he looked into the sufferer's large liquid eyes; and for a few seconds he could not speak. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Well, you ain't one bit like what I expected to see. You're more like a angel than a fairy."

Ziza smiled again, and said she didn't feel like either the one or the other.

"My poor lamb," said the clown, sitting down on the bed, and parting the dark hair on Ziza's forehead, with a hand as gentle as that of a mother, "we're goin' now. Time's up. Shall I ask Mrs Smith to stay with you again, till we come back?"

"Oh, no, no!" cried the child hurriedly, and squeezing her fingers into her eyes, as if to shut out some disagreeable object. "Not Mrs Smith. I'd rather be alone."

"I wish I could stay with you, Ziza," said Jim earnestly.

"It's of no use wishin', Jim," said his father, "you can't get off a single night. If you was to fail 'em you'd lose your engagement, and we can't afford that just at this time, you know; but I'll try to get Mrs James to come. She's a good woman, I know, and—"

"Mister Cattley," interrupted Willie, "if you'll allow a partic'larly humble individual to make a observation, I would say there's nothin' in life to prevent me from keeping this 'ere fairy company till you come back. I've nothin' particular to do as I knows on, an' I'm raither fond of lonely meditation; so if the fairy wants to go to sleep, it'll make no odds to me, so long's it pleases her."

"Thankee, lad," said the clown; "but you'll git wearied, I fear, for we won't be home till mornin'—"

"Ah!" interrupted Willie, "till daylight does appear. But that's no odds, neither—'cause I'm not married yet, so there's nobody awaitin' for me—and" (he winked to Jim at this point) "my mother knows I'm out."

The clown grinned at this. "You'd make one of us, youngster," said he, "if ye can jump. Howsever, I'm obliged by your offer, so you can stay if Ziza would like it."

Ziza said she would like it with such goodwill, that Willie adored her from that moment, and vowed in his heart he would nurse her till she—he did not like to finish the sentence; yet, somehow, the little that he had heard and seen of the child led him irresistibly to the conclusion that she was dying.

This having been satisfactorily arranged, the Cattleys, senior and junior, threw cloaks round them, exchanged their wigs for caps; and, regardless of the absurd appearance of their faces, hurried out to one of the minor theatres, with heavy hearts because of the little fairy left so ill and comfortless at home.

In a few minutes they were tumbling on the stage, cracking their jokes, and convulsing the house with laughter.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

WILLIE IN A NEW LIGHT.

Left alone with the fairy, Willie Willders began his duties as sick-nurse, a sphere of action into which he had never thought of being introduced, even in his wildest dreams.

He began by asking the fairy if she was all right and comfortable, to which she replied that she was not; upon which he explained that he meant, was she as right and comfortable as could be expected in the circumstances; could he do anything for her, in fact, or get her anything that would make her more comfortable than she was—but the fairy shook her poor head and said, "No."

"Come now, won't you have somethin' to eat? What had you for dinner?" said Willie, in a cheery voice, looking round the room, but not discovering any symptoms of food beyond a few empty plates and cups (the latter without handles), and a tea-pot with half a spout.

"I had a little bread and butter," said the fairy.

"No tipple?" inquired the nurse.

"No, except water."

"Ain't there none in the house?"

"No."

"D'ye git nothin' better at other times?" inquired Willie in surprise.

"Not often. Father is very poor. He was ill for a long time, too, and if it hadn't been for your kind master I think we should all have starved. He's better now, but he needs pretty good living to keep him up to his work—for there's a deal of training to be done, and it wears him out if he don't get meat. But the pantomimes began and we were getting on better, when the fire came and burnt everything we had almost, so we can't afford much meat or beer, and I don't like beer, so I've got them persuaded to let me live on bread and butter and water. I would like tea better, because it's hot, but we can't afford that."

Here was a revelation! The fairy lived upon bread and butter and water! Willie thought that, but for the interpolation of the butter, it would have borne marvellous resemblance to prison fare.

"When had you dinner?" inquired Willie suddenly.

"I think about four o'clock."

"An' can't you eat nothin' now?"

Again the fairy shook her head.

"Nor drink?"

"Look if there's anything in the tea-pot," said the fairy.

Willie looked, shook his head, and said, "Not a drop."

"Any leaves?"

"Why, y-yes," he brought the pot nearer to the candle; "there are a few used-up ones."

"Oh, do pour some hot water into it; but I fear the water is cold, and the fire's too low to boil it, and I know the coals are done; but father gets paid his salary to-morrow, and he'll give me some tea then. He's very kind to me, father is, and so is Jim."

She sighed as she spoke, and shut her eyes.

"Ziza," said Willie in a careless tone, "you won't object to my leavin' you for a few minutes; only a few; I want to get a little fresh air, an' see what sort of a night it is; I won't be long gone."

Ziza, so far from objecting, said that she was used to being left alone for long, long hours at a time, and wouldn't mind it. So Willie put the candle nearer to her bedside, placed a tea-cup of water within reach, went out, shut the door softly behind him, groped his way through the passage and up the stair, and got into the street.

That day his eccentric employer had paid him his first month's wage, a sovereign, with many complimentary remarks as to his usefulness. The golden coin lay in his pocket. It was the first he had ever earned. He had intended to go straight home and lay the shining piece in his mother's lap, for Willie was a peculiar boy, and had some strange notions in regard to the destination of "first-fruits." Where he had got them nobody could tell. Perhaps his mother knew, but nobody ever questioned her upon the point.

Taking this gold piece from his pocket, he ran into the nearest respectable street, and selected there the most respectable grocer's shop, into which he entered, and demanded a pound of the shopman's best tea, a pound of his best sugar, a pound of his best butter, a cut of his best bacon, and one of his best wax-candles. Willie knew nothing about relative proportion in regard to such things; he only knew that they were usually bought and consumed together.

The shopman looked at the little purchaser in surprise, but as Willie emphatically repeated his demands he gave him the required articles. On receiving the sovereign he looked twice at Willie, rung the piece of money three times on the counter, and then returned the change.

Gathering the packages in his arms, and putting the candle between his vest and bosom, he went into a baker's shop, purchased a loaf, and returned to the "subterraneous grotto" laden like the bee. To say that the fairy was surprised when he displayed these things, would be a feeble use of language. She opened her large eyes until Willie begged her in alarm not to open them wider for fear they should come out, at which sally she laughed, and then, being weak, she cried.

After that she fell in with her nurse's humour, and the two proceeded to "have a night of it." Ziza said she'd be a real fairy and tell him what to do, and Willie said he'd be a gnome or a he-fairy and do it.

At the outset Willie discovered that he had forgotten coals, but this was rectified by another five minutes' airing, and a rousing fire was quickly roaring in the chimney, while the kettle sang and spluttered on it like a sympathetic thing, as no doubt it was. Willie cleared the small table that stood at the invalid's bed side, and arranged upon it the loaf, the tea-pot, two cracked tea-cups, the butter and sugar, and the wax-candle—which latter was stuck into a quart bottle in default of a better candle-stick.

"Now, ain't that jolly?" said the nurse, sitting down and rubbing his hands.

"Very!" replied the patient, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"It's so like a scene in a play," continued Willie.

"Only much more real," suggested the fairy.

"Now, then, Ziza, have a cup o' tea, fresh from the market o' Chiny, as your dad would say, if he was sellin' it by auction. He's a knowin' codger your dad is, Ziza. There. I knowed I forgot somethin' else—the cream!"

"I don't mind it, indeed I don't," said Ziza earnestly.

Willie had started up to run out and rectify this omission, but on being assured that the fairy liked tea almost as well without as with cream, and that there was no cream to be got near at hand, he sat down again and continued to do the honours of the table. First he made the fairy sit up in bed, and commented sadly on her poor thin neck as she did it, observing that she was nothing better than a skeleton in a skin. Then he took off his own jacket and put it on her shoulders, tying the arms round her neck. Next he placed a piece of board in front of her, saying that it was a capital tray, and on this he arranged the viands neatly.

"Now, then, go at it, Ziza," he said, when all was arranged.

Ziza, who received his attentions with looks that were wonderfully gleeful for one in her weak state of health, went at it with such vigour that the bread was eaten and the tea drunk in a few minutes, and the supply had to be renewed. When she was in the middle of her second round of buttered toast (for Willie had toasted the bread), she stopped suddenly.

"Why don't you go on?" asked Willie.

"Because you have not eaten or drunk one mouthful yet."

"But I'm lookin' at you, and ain't that better? Howsever, if ye won't go on, I'll not keep you back," and with that Willie set to work, and, being uncommonly hungry, did what he styled "terrible execution among the wittles."

For some time the nurse and patient ate in comparative silence, but by degrees they began to talk, and as they became more confidential their talk became more personal.

"D'you like bein' a fairy?" said Willie, after a lull in the conversation.

"No, I don't," replied Ziza.

"Why not?"

"Because—because—I don't like the kind of things we have to do, and— and—in short, I don't like it at all, and I often pray God to deliver me from it."

"That's strange, now," said Willie, "I would have thought it great fun to be a fairy. I'd rather be a little clown or a he-fairy myself, now, than anything else I know of, except a fireman."

"A fireman, Willie?"

"Yes, a fireman. My brother, Blaz—a—Frank, I mean, is one, and he saved the lives of some people not long since."

Of course Willie here diverged into a graphic account of the fire in Beverly Square, and, seeing that Ziza listened with intense earnestness, he dilated upon every point, and went with special minuteness into the doings of Frank.

When he concluded, Ziza heaved a very deep sigh and closed her eyes.

"I've tired you, Ziza," exclaimed Willie, jumping up, with a look of anxiety, and removing the tea-board and jacket, as the child slipped down under the clothes. He asked if she wanted to go to sleep.

"Yes, for I'm very tired," she sighed languidly; then added, "but please read to me a little first."

"What book am I to read you?" said Willie, looking round the room, where no book of any kind was to be seen.

"Here, it's under the pillow."

Willie put his hand under the pillow and pulled out a small pocket-Bible.

"Read the third chapter of Saint John's Gospel," said the child, closing her eyes.

Willie read in the monotonous tones of a schoolboy's voice until he came to the sixteenth verse, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

"Stop at that verse," whispered Ziza. "I'll go to sleep now."

Her deep breathing soon proclaimed that she was in the land of dreams, so Willie removed the candle a little further away from her, and then, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, began to read the Bible. He turned over a few pages without much intention of finding any particular place, for he was beginning to feel sleepy.

The first words his eyes fell upon were, "Blessed are they that consider the poor."

He roused up a little at this, and read the verse again, for he connected it with the fact that the fairy was poor. Then he pondered it for some time, and, falling asleep, dropt his head on the Bible with such force that he woke up for a little and tried to read again, but do what he would he could not get beyond that verse; finally he gave up the attempt, and, laying his forehead down upon it, quickly fell sound asleep.

In this state the couple were discovered an hour or two later by Messrs. Cattley senior and junior on their return from the theatre.

"Inscrutable mysteries! say, what is this?" exclaimed the elder clown, advancing into the room on tiptoe.

Apostrophising his eye and one Betty Martin, the younger clown said that it was a "rare go and no mistake," whereupon his father laid his hand on Willie's shoulder and gently shook him.

"Eh! another cup, Ziza?" exclaimed the self-accused nurse, as he put out his hand to seize the tea-pot. "Hallo! I thought it was the fairy," he added, looking up with a sleepy smile; "I do believe I've gone and fell asleep."

"Why, lad, where got ye all those things?" inquired the senior Cattley, laying aside his cloak and cap, and speaking in a low tone, for Ziza was still sleeping soundly.

"Well, I got 'em," replied Willie in a meditative tone, "from a friend of mine—a very partikler friend o' mine—as declines to let me mention his name, so you'll have to be satisfied with the wittles and without the name of the wirtuous giver. P'r'aps it was a dook, or a squire, or a archbishop as did it. Anyway his name warn't Walker. See now, you've bin an' woke up the fairy."

The sick child moved as he spoke, but it was only to turn, without awaking, on her side.

"Well, lad," said the clown, sitting down and looking wistfully in the face of his daughter, "you've got your own reasons for not tellin' me— mayhap I've a pretty good guess—anyhow I say God bless him, for I do b'lieve he's saved the child's life. I've not seen her sleep like that for weeks. Look at her, Jim; ain't she like her old self?"

"Yes, father, she don't need no paint and flour to make a fairy on her just now. She's just like what she was the last time I seed her go up in a gauze cloud to heaven, with red and blue fire blazin' all round her."

"I'll bid ye good-night now," said Willie, buttoning up his jacket to the chin, and pulling his cap down on his brows with the air of a man who has a long walk before him.

"You're off, are you—eh?" said the elder clown, rising and taking Willie by the hand, "well, you're a good lad. Thank'ee for comin' here an' takin' care of Ziza. My subterranean grotto ain't much to boast of, but such as it is you're welcome to it at all times. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Willie; "good-night, Jim." Jim replied good-night heartily, and then Willie stepped into the dark passage. He glanced back at the fairy before shutting the door, but her eyes were closed, so he said good-night to her in his heart, and went home.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HOME LIFE.

"My dear Miss Tippet, I shall never, no never, get over it."

So said, and so undoubtedly thought, a thin little old lady with remarkably bright eyes, and a sweet old face, as she sat sipping tea at Miss Tippet's elbow.

It was in the drawing-room of Miss Deemas that she sat, and the Eagle sat opposite to her.

"It was very dreadful," responded Miss Tippet with a sigh—"very."

"It was awful. I know I shall never get over it,—never," repeated the little old lady, finishing her tea, and asking for another cup in the calmest possible voice, with the sweetest possible smile.

"Oh yes, you will, Mrs Denman," said Miss Deemas snappishly.

"No, indeed, I won't," repeated Mrs Denman; "how can I? Just think of the situation. Sitting in my chair in dishabille, when a man—a Man, Miss Dee—"

"Well, I know what a man is," said the Eagle bitterly; "why don't you go on?"

"Burst himself through my bedroom-door," continued Mrs Denman, "with lime and charcoal and brick-dust and water streaming down his face— f-fo-olded me in his arms, bore me out into the street—the street! Oh! I shall never, never get over it; and so little, so very little clothing on me—"

"How much had you on?" asked Miss Deemas in a deep voice, the calmness of which contrasted forcibly with Mrs Denman's excited tones.

"Really, Miss Deemas, I see no necessity for going into particulars. It is sufficient to know that I was carried by a man into the street in the face of some thousands of people, for I heard them cheering though I saw them not. I know I shall never get over it—another cup, my love; not quite so much sugar—no, not if I were to live to the age of Methusaleh."

"I don't wonder, indeed I don't," murmured the sympathetic Miss Tippet. "I think, Julia dear, you are a little too hard on Mrs Denman. How would you like to have been carried out of a burning house in such a way by a big rough man?"

"Oh, my dear," interposed Mrs Denman, "I did not say he was rough. Big he certainly was, and strong, but I must do him the justice to say that the man li—lif—oh me! lifted me up very tenderly, and carried me as though I had been an infant and he my mother, through smoke and fire and water, into the street, before the eyes of the—whole—oh, it's too awful to think of!"

"Stuff!" ejaculated Miss Deemas, pecking a piece of cake out of her fingers as she would, metaphorically of course, have pecked the eyes out of the head of Frank Willders, or any other man. "Didn't you say he put a blanket round you?"

"Of course, Miss Deemas; I should have died otherwise of pure shame."

"No, you wouldn't," retorted the Eagle. "You would probably have been half suffocated and a good deal dirtied, and you might have been singed, but you wouldn't have died; and what need you care now, for the people saw nothing but a bundle. You might have been a bundle of old clothes for all they knew or cared. All they wanted to see was the bravery, as they call it, of the man; as if there were not hundreds upon hundreds of women who would do the same thing if their muscles were strong enough, and occasion served."

"But it was a brave act, you know," said Miss Tippet timidly.

"I don't know that," retorted Miss Deemas, helping herself to more cake with as much decision of manner as if she had been carrying it off by force of arms from before the very muzzles of a masculine battery. "I don't know that. He had to escape, you know, for his own life, and he might as well bring a bundle along with him as not."

"Yes; but then," said Miss Tippet, "he first went up the—the thingumy, you know."

"No, he didn't," retorted Miss Deemas smartly; "he was in the house at the time, and only came down the 'thingumy,' as you call it!"

It was a peculiarity of Miss Deemas's character, that she claimed the right to be as rude as she chose to people in her own house, and rather prided herself on this evidence of independence.

"In my opinion," said Mrs Denman, "his being in the burning house at all of his own accord, was of itself evidence of courage. I think the fireman is a brave young man."

Thus much Mrs Denman said with dignity to Miss Deemas. The remainder of her speech she addressed to Miss Tippet.

"But, my dear, I feel that although I owe this young man a debt of gratitude which I can never repay, I shall never be able to look my preserver in the face. I know that his mind will always revert, when he sees me, to the fi—fig—the figure that he lifted out of that easy-chair. But there is one thing I have resolved on," continued the little old lady in more cheerful tones, as she asked for another cup of tea, "and that is, to get a fireman to instruct me as to the best method of saving my own life should fire again break out in my dwelling."

The Eagle gave a hysterical chuckle at this.

"I have already written to one who has been recommended to me as a shrewd man, and he is coming to call on me this very evening at seven o'clock."

Mrs Denman started, as if her own remark had recalled something, and pulled out her watch.

"Why, it is almost half-past six!" she exclaimed, rising hastily. "Excuse a hurried departure, Miss Deemas. Your society and sympathy" (she looked pointedly at Miss Tippet here) "have been so agreeable that I did not observe how time was flying. Good-bye, Miss Deemas. Good evening, dear Miss Tippet."

Miss Deemas bowed.

"Good-bye, my love," said Miss Tippet, bustling round her friend. "I'm so glad to have met you, and I hope you'll come and see me soon; 6 Poor-thing Lane, remember. Come whenever you please, dear Mrs Denman. Yes, yes, time does indeed fly, as you say; or as my friend, Sir Archibald What's-his-name used to remark, 'Tempit fugus something re-what's-'is-name.' Good-bye, dear Mrs Denman."

While the ladies were thus engaged, one whom the Eagle would have tossed her beak at with supreme contempt was enjoying himself in the bosom of his family. This was none other than Joe Corney himself, who, having received a "stop" for a distant fire, had looked in on his wife to tell her of the note he had received from Mrs Denman.

The family bosom resided in a small portion of a small house in the small street where the fire-engine dwelt.

Joe had laid his helmet on the table, and, having flung himself into a chair, seized his youngest child, a little girl, in his arms, raised her high above his head and laughed in her face; at which the child chuckled and crowed to the best of its ability.

Meanwhile his eldest son, Joe junior, immediately donned the helmet, seized the poker, thrust the head of it into a bucket of water, and, pointing the other end at a supposed fire, began to work an imaginary hand-pump with all his might.

"It's goin' out, daddy," cried the urchin.

"Sure, he's a true chip o' the owld block," observed his mother, who was preparing the evening meal of the family; "he's uncommon fond o' fire an' wather."

"Molly, my dear," said the fireman, "I'd have ye kape a sharp eye on that same chip, else his fondness for fire may lead to more wather than ye'd wish for."

"I've bin thinkin' that same meself, honey," replied Mrs Corney, placing a pile of buttered toast on the table. "Shure didn't I kitch him puttin' a match to the straw bed the other day! Me only consolation is that ivery wan in the house knows how to use the hand-pump. Ah, then, ye won't believe it, Joe, but I catched the baby at it this mornin', no later, an' she'd have got it to work, I do believe, av she hadn't tumbled right over into the bucket, an' all but drownded herself. But, you know, the station's not far off, if the house did git alight. Shure ye might run the hose from the ingin to here without so much as drawin' her out o' the shed. Now, then, Joe, tay's ready, so fall to."

Joe did fall to with the appetite of a man who knows what it is to toil hard, late and early. Joe junior laid aside the helmet and poker, and did his duty at the viands like the true son of a fireman—not to say an Irishman—and for five minutes or so the family enjoyed themselves in silence. After that Joe senior heaved a sigh, and said that it would be about time for him to go and see the old lady.

"What can it be she wants?" asked Mrs Corney.

"Don't know," replied her husband. "All I know is that she's the old lady as was bundled neck and crop out o' the first-floor windy o' the house in Holborn by Frank Willders. She's a quare owld woman that. She's got two houses, no less; wan over the coachmaker's shop—the shop bein' her property—an' wan in Russell Square. They say she's rich enough to line her coffin with goold an inch thick. Spakin' o' that, Molly my dear, a quare thing happened to me the other night. It's what ye call a coinsidence."

"What's that, Joe?"

"Well, t'ain't easy to explain, but it means two things happenin' together in a most onlikely way—d'ye see?"

"No, I don't, Joe," replied Mrs Corney, helping herself to another slice of toast.

"Well, it don't matter much," resumed Joe, "but this is what it was: Mr Dale an' me was sittin', about two in the mornin', at the station fire smokin' our pipes (for it was my turn on duty) an' chattin' away about one thing an' another, when somehow we got upon tellin' our experiences, an' Dale he tells me a story o' how he was once called to a fire in a cemetary, an' had to go down among the coffins—for they was afire—an' what a fright some o' his men got, when, just as he had finished, an' all my flesh was creepin' at wot I'd heard, there comes a ring at the bell an' a call to a fire in Portland Street. I runs an' gets out the ingin, an' Frank (he was my mate that night) he rings up the boys, an' away we wint in tin minutes. It wasn't far, an' when we got there in we wint into the house, which was full o' smoke, but no fire to be seen. We wint coughin' and sneezin' an' rubbin' our eyes down into a cellar, where the lads of another ingin was at work before us wi' the hand-pumps, an', would ye belaive it? but the walls o' that cellar was lined wi' coffins! True for ye, there they was, all sizes, as thick as they could stand. I thought I was dramin', but it was no drame, for it was an undertaker's shop; an' when I wint upstairs, after we diskivered the fire an' put it out, I sees two coffins on tressels lyin' ready for use. Wan was black-painted wood, no doubt for a poor man, an' nothin' inside o't. The other alongside was covered wid superfine black cloth an' silver-mounted handles, an' name-plate, an' it was all padded inside an' lined wid white satin!"

"White satin, Joe? You're jokin'."

"As sure as your name's Molly, it was white satin," repeated Joe; "I wouldn't have belaived it av I hadn't seen it; but that's the way the quality goes to their graves. I looks at the two coffins as I was comin' away, an' thinks I to myself, I wonder whether the poor man or the rich man'll be most comfortable when they're laid there?"

"Now, Molly, I'll bid ye good-night an' be off to see this owld lady, this Mrs Denman. Look afther that boy, now, an kape the matches out of his way, whativer ye do."

With this very needful warning, Joe Corney kissed his wife and the baby, and went off to the station to obtain leave of absence for a couple of hours.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

JOE CORNEY'S ADVICE.

Wending his way through the crowded streets, Joe soon reached the door of the house in Russell Square which belonged to Mrs Denman.

The good lady had made use of a cab after quitting Miss Deemas, so that she was at home and seated in a luxuriously easy chair in her splendidly furnished drawing-room when the fireman applied the knocker.

"Does Mrs Denman stop here, my dear?" said Joe to the smart servant-girl who opened the door.

"Yes," replied the girl, "and she told me to show you up to the drawing-room whenever you came. Step this way."

Joe pulled off his cap and followed the maid, who ushered him into the presence of the little old lady.

"Pray take a chair," said Mrs Denman, pointing to one which had evidently been placed close to hers on purpose. "You are a fireman, I understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Joe, "I've bin more nor tin years at the business now."

"You must find it a very warm business, I should imagine," said Mrs Denman, with a smile.

"True for ye, ma'am. My body's bin a'most burnt off my sowl over and over again; but it's cowld enough, too, sometimes, specially when ye've got to watch the premises after the fire's bin put out of a cowld winter night, as I had to do at your house, ma'am."

Mrs Denman started and turned pale.

"What! d'you mean to say that you were at the fire in—in Holborn that night?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am. Och! but ye must be ill, ma'am, for yer face is as white as a ghost. Shure but it's red now. Let me shout for some wather for ye, ma'am."

"No, no, my good man," said Mrs Denman, recovering herself a little. "I—I—the fact is, it did not occur to me that you had been at that fire, else I would never—but no matter. You didn't see—see—any one saved, did you?"

"See any one saved, is it? Shure, I did, an' yerself among the lot. Och! but it's Frank Willders as knows how to do a thing nately. He brought ye out o' the windy, ma'am, on his showlder as handy as if ye'd bin a carpet-bag, or a porkmanty, ma'am—"

"Hush, man!" exclaimed poor Mrs Denman, blushing scarlet, for she was a very sensitive old lady; "I cannot bear to think of it. But how could—you know it was me? It—it—might have been anything—a bundle, you know."

"Not by no manes," replied the candid Joe. "We seed your shape quite plain, ma'am, for the blankit was tight round ye."

Mrs Denman covered her face with her hand at this point, and resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, reflected that the thing was beyond remedy, and that, as the man had come and was now looking at her, matters could not be worse; so she resolved to carry out her original intention, and question him as to the best course of action in the event of fire.

"My good man," she said, "I have taken the liberty of asking you to come here to tell me what I should do to guard against fire in future."

Joe rubbed his nose and looked at the ground; then he stroked his chin and looked at the old lady; then a look of intelligence lighted up his expressive countenance as he said abruptly—

"Is yer house an' furniture insured, ma'am?"

"No, it is not," replied Mrs Denman. "I have never insured in my life, because although I hear of fires every day in London, it has never occurred to me until lately that there was any probability of my house being burned. I know it was very foolish of me, but I shall see to having it done directly."

"That's right, ma'am," said Joe, with an approving nod. "If you seed the heaps an' heaps o' splendid furnitur' an' goods an' buildin's as is burnt every day a'most in London, an' lost to the owners 'cause they grudged the few shillin's of insurance, or 'cause they was careless an' didn't b'lieve a fire would ever come to them, no matter how many might come to other folk, you'd insure yer house an' furnitur' first thing i' the mornin', ma'am."

"I have no doubt you say what is quite correct, Mr Corney, and I will certainly attend to this matter in future; but I am more particularly anxious to know how I should act if the house in which I live were to take fire."

"Get out of it as fast as possible," said Joe promptly, "an' screech out fire! till yer sides is sore."

"But suppose," said Mrs Denman, with a faint smile, "that the fire is burning in the stair, and the house full of smoke, what am I to do?"

"Och! I see yer drift now, ma'am," said Joe, with a knowing look. "Av it's that what ye wants to know, I'll just, with your lave, ma'am, give ye a small discourse on the subjic'."

Joe cleared his throat, and began with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about.

"It's as well, ma'am, to begin by tryin' to prevent yer house ketchin' fire—prevention bein' better nor cure. If ye'd kape clear o' that, there's two or three small matters to remimber. First of all, take oncommon good care o' your matches, an' don't let the childer git at 'em, if you've any in the house. Would you believe it, ma'am, there was above fifty fires in London last year that was known to ha' bin set alight by childers playin' wid matches, or by careless servants lettin' 'em drop an' treadin' on 'em?"

"How many?" asked Mrs Denman in surprise.

"Fifty, ma'am."

"Dear me! you amaze me, fireman; I had supposed there were not so many fires in London in a year."

"A year!" exclaimed Joe. "Why, there's nearly three fires, on the average, every twinty-four hours in London, an' that's about a thousand fires in the year, ma'am."

"Are you sure of what you say, fireman?"

"Quite sure, ma'am; ye can ax Mr Braidwood if ye don't b'lieve me."

Mrs Denman, still in a state of blank amazement, said that she did not doubt him, and bade him go on.

"Well, then," resumed Joe, "look well arter yer matches, an' niver read in bed; that's the way hundreds o' houses get a light. When you light a candle with a bit o' paper, ma'am, don't throw it on the floor an' tramp on it an' think it's out, for many a time there's a small spark left, an' the wind as always blows along the floor sets it up an' it kitches somethin', and there you are—blazes an' hollerin' an' ingins goin' full swing in no time. Then, ma'am, never go for to blow out yer gas, an' if there's an escape don't rest till ye get a gasfitter and find it out. But more particularly don't try to find it yerself with a candle. Och! if ye'd only seen the blows up as I've seen from gas, ye'd look better arter it. Not more nor two weeks gone by, ma'am, we was called to attend a fire which was caused by an escape o' gas. W'en we got there the fire was out, but sitch a mess you niver did see. It was a house, ma'am, in the West End, with the most illigant painted walls and cornices and gimcracks, idged all with goold. The family had just got into it—noo done up for 'em, only, by good luck, there wasn't much o' the furnitur' in. They had smelled a horrid smell o' gas for a good while, but couldn't find it. At last the missis, she goes with a workman an a candle to look for it, an' sure enough they found it in a bathroom. It had been escapin' in a small closet at the end o' the bath, and not bein' able to git out, for the door was a tight fit, it had gone away an' filled all the space between the ceilin's an' floors, an' between the lath, and plaster, and the walls. The moment the door in the bath-room was opened all this gas took light an' blowed up like gunpowder. The whole inner skin o' the beautiful drawing-room, ma'am, was blowed into the middle of the room. The cook, who was in the drawin'-room passage, she was blow'd down stairs; the workman as opened the little door, he was blow'd flat on his back; an' the missis, as was standin' with her back to a door, she was lifted off her legs and blow'd right through the doorway into a bedroom."

"Gracious!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs Denman, "was she killed?"

"No, ma'am, she warn't killed. Be good luck they was only stunned an' dreadful skeared, but no bones was broken."

Mrs Denman found relief in a sigh.

"Well, ma'am," continued Joe, "let me advise you to sweep yer chimleys once a month. When your chimley gets afire the sparks they get out, and when sparks get out of a windy night there's no tellin' what they won't light up. It's my opinion, ma'am, that them as makes the laws should more nor double the fines for chimleys goin' afire. But suppose, ma'am, your house gets alight in spite of you—well then, the question is what's best to do?"

Mrs Denman nodded her old head six or seven times, as though to say, "That is precisely the question."

"I'll tell you, ma'am,"—here Joe held up the fore-finger of his right hand impressively. "In the first place, every one in a house ought to know all the outs and ins of it, 'cause if you've got to look for things for the first time when the cry of 'Fire' is raised, it's not likely that you'll find 'em. Now, d'ye know, or do the servants know, or does anybody in the house know, where the trap in the roof is?"

Mrs Denman appeared to meditate for a minute, and then said that she was not sure. She herself did not know, and she thought the servants might be ignorant on the point, but she rather thought there was an old one in the pantry, but they had long kept a cat, and so didn't require it.

"Och!" exclaimed Joe, with a broad grin, "sure it's a trap-door I'm spakin' of."

Mrs Denman professed utter ignorance on this point, and when told that it ought to be known to every one in the house as a mode of escape in the event of fire, she mildly requested to know what she would have to do if there were such a trap.

"Why, get out on the roof to be sure," (Mrs Denman shivered) "and get along the tiles to the next house," (Mrs Denman shut her eyes and shuddered) "an' so make yer escape. Then you should have a ladder fixed to this trap-door so as it couldn't be took away, and ye should have some dozen fathoms o' half-inch rope always handy, cause if ye was cut off from the staircase by fire an' from the roof by smoke ye might have to let yourself down from a windy. It's as well, too, to know how to knot sheets and blankets together, so that the ties won't slip, for if you have no rope they'd be better than nothin'. You should also have a hand-pump, ma'am, and a bucket of water always handy, 'cause if you take a fire at the beginnin' it's easy put out. An' it's as well to know that you should go into a room on fire on your hands and knees, with your nose close to the ground—just as a pinter-dog goes—'cause there's more air there than overhead; an' it's better to go in wi' the hand-pump the first thing. Don't wait to dress, ma'am."

"Stop, stop, Mr Corney!" cried Mrs Denman, holding up her hand.

The little lady was stunned with the rapid utterance of the enthusiastic fireman, and with the dreadful suggestion that she, Mrs Denman, should, in the dead of night, get upon the roof of her dwelling and scramble over the tiles, or let herself down by a rope from a window into the public street, or creep into a burning room on her hands and knees with her nose to the ground like a pointer, and all this, too, in her night-dress, so she begged of him to stop, and said:

"But you forget, fireman, it is impossible for me to do any of these dreadful things."

"Well, ma'am," returned Joe coolly, "it wouldn't be easy—though, for the matter o' that, it's wonderful what people will do for their lives; but I was tellin' ye, ma'am, what ought to be done, so as somebody else in the house might do it, if you couldn't.

"But suppose, ma'am," continued Joe, without waiting for a reply; "suppose that the house is alight. Well, the first thing you've got to do, is not to get into a fluster. That can't do no good, you know, and is sure to do mischief. Keep cool. That's the first thing, ma'am; and be deliberate in all ye do. The second thing is, to wrap a blanket round ye, an' get out of the house as fast as ye can without stoppin' to dress. It's of no use lookin' put out, ma'am; for it's better to escape without yer clo'es than to be burnt alive in 'em. Then be careful to shut all doors after ye as ye go. This keeps the air from gittin' at the fire, and so smothers it down till the ingines come up. Also keep all windows shut. If the smoke is like to choke ye, git yer nose as near the ground as possible, an' go along on yer hands and knees. A bit o' flannel or a worsted sock held over yer mouth an' nose, will help you to bear it better.

"If ye can't escape by the street-door, or the trap in the roof, then get into a front room, where you will be more easy to be got at wid ladders or fire-escapes, an' see that every mimber o' the household is there. Many a wan has bin forgotten in the hurry-skurry of a fire, and left asleep in bed, ignorant o' the danger till too late; when a cool head might have missed 'em, and wakened 'em in time. Whatever ye do, ma'am—keep cool."

The probability of poor Mrs Denman keeping cool in such circumstances was uncommonly small; for she was at that moment hot all over, and her face flushed at the mere recital of such horrors!

Joe then went on to state, that the very last thing she should do was to jump from a window (a somewhat unnecessary piece of advice, poor Miss Denman thought), and that, when she was compelled to take such a step, she should first of all pitch over all the blankets and bedding she could lay hold of to make her fall easy. He wound up with an emphatic reiteration of the assurance that her only chance lay in "keeping cool."

That night, poor Mrs Denman, in a condition of mind that is utterly indescribable, because inconceivable, went through the whole of the dreadful processes which Joe had described; and did it, too, with miraculous presence of mind and energy—in her dreams.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

DARK PLOTS ARE HATCHED.

Gorman was one of those peculiar characters who, in personal appearance, are totally devoid of peculiarity. He was a middle-sized, thick-set, commonplace, grave, quiet man; very powerful—but not apparently so; one whom it was impossible to "find out" unless he chose to let himself be found out. Above all, he was a reserved man.

Everybody knew well enough, at least among his intimates, that he was named Gorman; but not one of the number knew what his Christian name was. A few were aware that he signed himself "D. Gorman"; but whether the "D" represented David, dastard, drunkard, or demon, was a matter of pure speculation to all, a few of his female acquaintance excepted (for he had no friends), who asserted roundly that it represented them all, and some were even willing to go the length of saying that it represented more, and stood for dirty, drivelling, desperate, and a few other choice words which it is quite unnecessary to mention. Only a few, and these were among the knowing and peculiarly observant ones of Gorman's intimates, said that "D" stood for "deep." But then, many of those who thus pronounced their opinion, were comparatively worthless characters, given to scandal and slander; so the reader must not allow himself to be biassed too much by their report.

Certain it is, however, that when Gorman was asked on one occasion what his Christian name was, he replied that he had no Christian name; because he didn't believe in Christianity, and that he signed himself "D," to be distinguished from the other Gormans who might chance to exist in the universe.

People were not at all shocked at his bold statement of unbelief; because, in the circle in which he moved, the same disbelief was pretty general.

Besides many other traits and qualities, definable and indefinable, Gorman had the power of assuming the appearance either of a burglar of the lowest type, or a well-to-do contractor or tradesman. A slight change in dress and manner were sufficient to metamorphose him beyond recognition.

Everybody knew, also, that Gorman was the landlord of a small public-house at the corner of a dirty street, not far from London Bridge; and that he kept a stout, middle-aged man on the premises to do the duty of host, while he himself went about "other business," which nobody knew of, and which no one could find out, although many had tried to do so with all their might.

Every day in the year, Gorman might have been seen at the "Golden Swan"; but never for longer than a few minutes at a time, when he inspected the books, received the cash drawn the day before; and made an impression on all in the premises, that tended to convince them they were well looked after.

"Humph!" ejaculated Gorman, as he finished counting the dirty coppers and pieces of silver which his agent had delivered to him, and dropped them from his dirty fingers into a dirty leather bag: "Business is dull, I think."

"It ain't brisk just now, sir," replied the deputy-landlord of the "Golden Swan."

Gorman received this reply with another "Humph," and then, putting the bag in his coat pocket, prepared to leave.

"No one bin askin' for me?" inquired Gorman.

"No, sir; no one."

"I'll be back to-morrow about this time."

The deputy knew that this was false, for his employer invariably came at a different hour each day, in order to take "the house" by surprise; but he said, "Very well, sir," as usual.

"And mind," continued Gorman, "that you put the lights out. You're uncommon careful about that, I hope?"

It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman's anxiety about putting out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in the course of a few years. He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire. Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it—no, not damaged, by the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the full amount. His enemies sometimes said above it; but neither they nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.

The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in putting everything out every night—from the last beery lingerer, to the gas—and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question, as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business. Hereupon Gorman said "Good-night," and the deputy returned to the counter, where besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.

Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.

That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a feeling of the deepest misery.

"Anyone inside?" asked Gorman.

"No," said Boone, "'cept the boy. I'll call him to mind the shop, and then we can be alone."

As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop, while he held private consultation with his friend.

The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced, washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner. Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master's mandate by sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.

"Glad to see you, Mr Gorman," said Boone, seating his tall body on a low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire. "Very glad to see you, indeed, in my—little sanctum, my withdrawing room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the intervals of business."

Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor did not encourage him.

"Pretty long intervals, I should suppose," he growled, pulling out his pipe and lighting it.

Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was extremely dull—astonishingly dull.

"Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings' worth o' goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although it's gettin' well on for Christmas-time? One would a'most fancy the childr'n was about to give up such vanities an' devote themselves to serious business. It's a serious business for the like of us, anyhow."

Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking over it, and made up his mind to do it.

Boone's face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he had been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind not to do it.

"Oh, you have, have you?" said Gorman in a tone of irony. "Very good; then I'll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half."

Boone's face became still paler.

"You're a hard landlord," said he.

"You're a soft tenant," retorted Gorman.

"You know what the punishment is by law," continued Boone.

"Yes—death," said the other drily; "but you know as well as I do that it's never carried out nowadays."

"But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain't much better."

"Some men think it's worse," replied Gorman, with a savage grin; "but you've no need to fear. If you only take the right precautions it's impossible to find it out, an' I'll engage to put ye up to doin' it in such a way that there won't be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to convict you. Only put a bold face on it and the thing's done, and your fortune made as well as mine."

The man's voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.

"Come, don't be hard on me," he said at length; "I really haven't got courage to go through with this. Only give me a little more time, and I'll—"

"Very good," interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his pipe into fragments on the hearth; "if you won't burn yourself out o' this scrape."

"Hush! hush, man!" said Boone in a hoarse whisper; "not so loud; my lad will hear you. Come, I'll think of it."

"Will you do it?" demanded the other fiercely. "You know the alternative if you don't?"

"Ruination?"

"Exactly so; and that without delay."

"Ruination either way," murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he were counting the cost.

"Tut, man," said his landlord, becoming more gentle, "it's nothing of the sort. If you only take my advice, it'll be a jolly blaze, which, instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and commencing business again on fresh capital. Come, I've not got time to waste with you. There's no escape for you, so you'd better say yes, else I'll go and have a talk with a legal friend of mine who is used to screwing gold out of most unpromising mines."

David Boone's face had by this time become so pale that it could not become paler, so it turned somewhat green instead. His teeth, too, had a tendency to chatter when he spoke, but by a strong mental effort he prevented this, and said in a subdued voice that he was willing to do whatever his landlord pleased to command.