“Your face ain’t cherubic,” observed the Bloater, looking down at his little friend. “If anythink, I should say it partakes of the diabolic; so you’ve got no occasion to make it wus than it is by twistin’ it about like that. Wotever do you do it for?”
Little Jim replied by a sound which can only be represented by the letters “sk,” pronounced in the summit of the nose.
“That ain’t no answer,” said the Bloater, with a knowing smile, the knowingness of which consisted chiefly in the corners of the mouth being turned down instead of up. This peculiarity, be it carefully observed, was natural to the Bloater, who scorned every species of affectation. Many of his young friends and admirers were wont to imitate this smile. If they could have seen the inconceivably idiotic expressions of their countenances when they tried it, they would never have made a second effort!
“Wot a jolly lark!” said Little Jim, prefacing the remark with another “sk.”
“Ha!” replied the Bloater, with a frown that implied the pressure of weighty matters on his mind.
After a few minutes’ silence, during which the cherubic face of Little Jim underwent various contortions, the Bloater said—
“If I ain’t mistaken, Jim, you and I are sound of wind and limb?”
Jim looked up in surprise, and nodded assent.
“Besides which,” continued the Bloater, “we’re rayther fleet than otherwise.”
Again Jim nodded and grinned.
“No Bobby as ever stuck ’is hignorant hinsolent ’ead into a ’elmet ever could catch us.”
“Sk!” ejaculated Jim, expanding from ear to ear.
“Well, then,” continued the Bloater, becoming more grave and confidential, “it’s my opinion, Jim, that you and I shall ’ave a run for it to-night. It’s quite plain that our hamiable friend who seems so fond o’ fire-raisin’ is goin’ to pay ’is respects to Number 5. ’Avin’ got it well alight it is just within the bounds o’ the possible—not to say prob’ble—that ’e’ll give ’em leg-bail—make tracks, as the Yankees say—cut and run for it. Well, in course it would never do to let ’im go off alone, or with only a ’eavy stoopid, conceited slow-coach of a Bobby at ’is tail.”
“No, no,” responded Little Jim; “that would never do. Quite out of the question. ’Ighly himproper.”
“Therefore,” said the Bloater, with emphasis, “you and I shall ’ave to keep our heyes on ’im, shan’t we?”
He put this concluding question with a wink of such astounding significance, that Little Jim could only reply with another “sk!” as he stopped for a few moments to hug himself.
At the fire-station “close to Number 5,” the firemen lounged about that evening with the air of men who, although they chanced to be idle at the moment, were nevertheless on the alert and ready for action at a moment’s notice. Their large folding-doors stood open with an air of off-hand hospitality. A couple of engines stood within, glittering from excessive polish and cleanliness. Coils of hose and buckets, etcetera, were seen here and there in readiness, while in an interior room a glimpse might be had of gleaming brass helmets, which hung in a row on the wall, each with an axe pendant below it; and, opposite to these, a row of dry boots arranged on pegs with their soles to the ceiling.
The two boys lingered about the station admiring all this, and commenting in their own peculiar fashion on men and things, sometimes approvingly, often critically, and now and then disparagingly. They sometimes ventured to address a remark or two to any of the men who chanced to look at them with a sufficiently good-humoured expression, and even went the length of asking Bob Clazie if, in the event of the Thames going on fire, “’e thought ’e could manage to put it hout!” to which Bob replied that he thought he could if “cheek” were a fire-extinguisher, and he only had a brigade of boys equal to the Bloater to help him.
As the night advanced the firemen devoted themselves to pipes, draughts, and miscellaneous conversation in their back room, in which they were occasionally interrupted by the tingle of the telegraphic bell, to inform them that there was a chimney on fire in Holborn, to which they need pay no attention, even though “called” by an excited informer, because it was already being attended to, and didn’t merit farther notice; or to let them know that there was a fire raging in Whitechapel, which, although being most energetically looked after by the men of the brigade in its immediate neighbourhood, would be the better of aid, nevertheless, from one man from that station.
On such distant duty, Bob Clazie and his brother David were successively sent out in different directions during the first part of the night; but they returned in the course of an hour or so—Bob considerably dirtied and moistened in consequence of having had to go vigorously into action at the tail end of a fire, while David returned as he went, having found that his fire had been effectually got under before his arrival.
Only once during the night did a regular “call” reach the station. It was about eleven o’clock. Our youthful watchmen, feeling that the appointed hour was drawing nigh, had retired to the shade of a neighbouring court to avoid observation, when a man came tearing round the corner, dashed into the fire-station, tumbled over a bucket into the midst of the men, and yelled, “Fire!”
In three minutes the engine was out, the horses were attached, the men in their places, and away they went.
“Oh! let’s follow,” cried Little Jim, enthusiastically, while his eyes glittered as if they, too, were on fire.
The more sedate Bloater laid his hand heavily on his little friend’s shoulder.
“No, Jim, no. Business fust, pleasure arterwards. We’ve got business on hand to-night.”
Little Jim felt the force of the observation, and made what we may call a mighty effort—considering that he was such a mite of a thing—to restrain himself. His heroism was rewarded, for, in less than half an hour, the engine came rattling back again, its services not having been required! The fire had occurred close to the fire-escape, of which one of the men of that station had the charge that night. He had run to the fire with his escape at the first alarm, and had brought to bear on it the little hand fire-engine with which all the escapes are now provided. At that early stage in the fire, its little stream was more effectual than the flood from a powerful “steamer” would have been at a later period. The consequence was that the fire was got under at once, and, as we have said, the engine was not required.
“Wirtoo,” observed the Bloater, sententiously, “is its own reward.”
He pointed to the returning engine, and looked at Little Jim with solemnity; whereupon Jim displayed all his teeth, nodded approval of the sentiment, and—“sk!”
“Little Jim,” continued the Bloater, shaking his head gravely, “they do say—them as knows best, or thinks they does, which is all the same—that there’s wit in silence; if so, it appears to me that you tries to be too witty at times.”
“I dun know, Bob,” replied Jim, with a meditative look, “much about wit bein’ in silence. I only wish there was wittles in it. Oh! wouldn’t I ’old my tongue, just, till I was fit to bust!”
“But there ain’t wittles in it, Jim, nor nothin’ else worth ’avin’, so don’t try it on too much to-night. You see, I’m a bit down-’earted about the thoughts o’ this ’ere black business, an’ feel the want of a cheerin’ word now and agin to keep up my droopin’ spirits, d’ye see; so don’t stand grinnin’ there like a Cheshire cat, else I’ll—”
The Bloater terminated the sentence in action, by squeezing Little Jim’s cap over his eyes. He was still engaged in this act of pleasantry when Mr Sparks and his friend Jeff appeared on the other side of the street. They walked smartly past the door of the fire-station, which was shut by that time, the men having retired to their various domiciles for the night, with the exception of the two on night duty. They stopped at the corner of the street, looked back, and stood as if conversing casually with each other. Meanwhile, the two boys shrank out of sight, and gazed at them like weasels peeping out of a hole. The street, being a small back one, was quite deserted at that hour. After talking in low tones for a few seconds, and making sure, as Jeff said, that the coast was clear, the incendiaries shrunk round the corner and disappeared.
“Now, Jim,” whispered the Bloater, “they’ve gone to Number 5; let’s foller.”
They were uncommonly active and sly little fellows, but, despite their utmost efforts, they failed to gain a position of vantage from which to observe the enemy without being seen. They did, indeed, manage to make out that the two men were for some time busily and stealthily engaged in the neighbourhood of Joe Dashwood’s dwelling, but what they were doing could not be ascertained. After repeated and desperate efforts to overcome his difficulties, at the risk of his neck and to the detriment of his shins, the Bloater at last sat down on a doorstep within a dark passage, and feigned to tear his hair.
“Now ain’t it wexin’?” he whispered, appealing to his small friend.
“Aggrawatin’ beyond endoorance,” replied Jim, with looks of sympathy.
“Wot is to be done?” demanded the Bloater.
“Invite a Bobby to come an’ help us,” suggested Jim.
“H’m! an’ stop ’em in their game, p’raps, at a pint w’ere nobody could prove nothink against ’em, besides bringin’ on ourselves the purlite inquiry, ‘Wot are you up to ’ere?’”
Little Jim looked disconsolate and said nothing, which, as the Bloater testily remarked, was another of his witty rejoinders.
“Well, then,” said Jim, “we must just wait till the fire breaks out an’ then bust upon ’em all of a ’eap.”
“H’m! much they’d care for your bustin’ on ’em. No, Jim, we must risk a little. Never wenter, never win, you know. Just you go round by the other end of the street and creep as close as you can; you’re small, you know, an’ won’t be so easy seen as me. Try to make out wot they’re up to and then—”
“Then wot?”
“W’y, come back an’ let me know. Away!” said the Bloater, waving his hand with the air of a field-marshal.
Jim disappeared at once and was absent about ten minutes, during which Master Robert Herring sat in the dark passage biting his nails and feeling really uncomfortable, as is usually the case with energetic spirits when reduced to unavoidable inaction. Presently Little Jim returned with, as his friend and patron remarked, his eyes like two saucers, and his face as white as a sheet.
“Hallo, Jim, wot’s up?”
“Oh, Bob!” gasped Jim.
“Speak!” exclaimed the Bloater, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently.
“They’ve got the ’ouse choke full o’ combustibles,” gasped Jim in an excited whisper. “I see ’em stuffin’ straw and pitch, an’ I dun know wot all, through a small back winder.”
“So—now’s the time for a Bobby,” observed the Bloater, leaping up.
“No, taint,” said Jim, detaining him. “I ’eard ’em speak. Oh, they’re sly dogs! They ain’t a-goin’ to run away arter settin’ it alight. They’re goin’ to run to the station, rouse up the men, an’ help to put it out! an’ one of ’em says, ‘Jeff,’ says ’e, larfin’, ‘won’t we lend ’em a good ’and to put it hout neither!’ And the other grinned, an’ says, ‘Yes, Phil, we’ll do our best, an’ it’ll go hard if I can’t in the middle o’ the smoke an’ flames, git a chance at Joe to—.’ ’E didn’t say no more, but ’e drewed ’is finger across ’is throat; but the one as ’e called Phil said, ‘No, Jeff, no, I’ll split on you if you do. It’s quite enough to give ’im a rap over the ’ead!’ I didn’t wait to ’ear no more arter that.”
“They’re safe not to go off, then,” observed the Bloater; “nevertheless, we must take a Bobby into our confidence now, for the case begins to look ugly.”
While these things were transpiring in the dark and silent night outside of “Number 5,” the inmates of that modest mansion were buried in profound repose. Joe Dashwood, on leaving the station for the night, and going home, had found that Molly had already retired, and was asleep in the inner room with the Rosebud in her bosom.
After contemplating this pleasant sight for a few minutes he returned to the outer or kitchen-dino-drawing-room, where he found a cot extemporised out of four chairs and a baking-board, on which reposed the sturdy little figure of Fred Crashington. That enthusiastic amateur fireman had been invited to take up his quarters at Number 5, until his father should be out of danger, and having devoted his energies during the entire day, along with the Rosebud, in a futile effort to extinguish that obstinate fire in the cupboard, had at length been persuaded to retire exhausted to the baking-board, where he lay with a happy smile on his parted lips, and his right arm embracing the quaint old helmet, with which he was wont to extinguish his little head.
Being unusually tired that night, but not sleepy, Joe resolved to solace himself with a pipe before lying down. He threw off his coat, vest, and braces, pulled up his flannel shirt, so as to let it hang comfortably loose over the waistband of his trousers, sat down in an armchair in front of the fire, filled his pipe, and began to smoke. His intention was to “take a few whiffs and then turn in,” but the influence of the tobacco appeared to be soporific, for he soon began to nod; then he removed his pipe, stared earnestly at the fire, and established quite a nodding acquaintance with it. Presently he dropped his chin on his broad chest and snored steadily.
From this condition of repose he was awakened by a sensation as if of suffocation by smoke. This was such an extremely natural, not to say habitual, state of things with Joe, that he was at least a couple of seconds in realising the fact that there was unusual cause for haste and vigorous action. Like a giant refreshed Joe leaped to his work. Every fibre of his huge frame was replete with energy, and his heart beat strong, but it beat steadily; not a vestige of a flutter was there, for his head was clear and cool. He knew exactly what to do. He knew exactly what was being done. Surprise did, indeed, fill him when he reflected that it was his own house which had caught fire, but that did not for a moment confuse him as to the certainty that the engine must be already out, and his comrades rushing to his assistance.
He strode to the door and opened it. A volume of dense black smoke, followed by sheets of flame drove him back. At the same moment loud shouts were heard outside, and a shriek came from the inner room. Joe dashed towards it. In passing, he pulled Fred off the baking-board, and at the same moment seized the curious old helmet, and almost instinctively clapped it on his own head. There was a back door to the house. Joe grasped his wife, and the Rosebud, and the bedclothes in one mighty embrace, and bore the whole bundle towards this back door. Before he reached it it was dashed open by Bob Clazie, who sprang in with the “branch.” Bob, having been roused to a fire so near at hand, had not taken time to go through the usual process of putting on his uniform. He, like Joe, was in dishabille.
“Here, take care of ’em. Let go the branch; I’ll look after it. Foul play here. Let the police look out.”
Joe said this sharply as he thrust the bundle containing his wife into Bob’s arms, and, picking up the Rosebud, who had slipped out, clapped her on Bob’s back. Bob made for the back staircase, while Joe picked up the branch, and turning his head in the direction of the open door, shouted in the voice of a stentor, “Down with ’er!” Meanwhile, Fred, who had a vague impression that the fire in the cupboard had got to a powerful head at last, picked up the hose and looked on with a sleepy smile.
Obedient to the order, the water rushed on, filled and straightened the hose, threw Fred on his back on the floor, and caused the nozzle to quiver as Joe directed it to the fire.
Just then a man dashed into the room.
“Lend a hand here,” cried Joe glancing round.
He saw in a moment by the man’s look that he meant mischief. Instantly he turned the nozzle full in his face. Jeff, for it was he, fell as if he had been shot, and was partly washed, partly rolled down the back staircase, at the foot of which a policeman was prepared to receive him, but Jeff sprang up, knocked down the policeman, and fled. Seeing this, Mr Sparks took alarm, and was about to follow when the Bloater suddenly sprang at his throat and Little Jim caught him by the legs. He quickly disengaged himself, however, and ran off at full speed, closely followed by his young tormentors and two policemen, besides a miscellaneous crowd of hooting and yelling lads and boys.
It was an exciting chase that ensued. The two policemen were young and strong, and for some time kept pretty near the fugitive, but gradually they fell behind, and, by doubling through several narrow streets, Sparks threw them off the scent. As for the crowd, the greater part of those who composed it gave in after a short run. But the Bloater and Little Jim were not thus to be got rid of. They were fleet of foot and easily kept Mr Sparks in view, though he made desperate efforts to catch them, as well as to get away from them. The two boys were so persevering that they followed him all the way to Thames Street, and, just when the unhappy man thought he had at length eluded them, they set up the cry of “Stop thief!” and gave chase again with a new force of policemen and roughs at their heels.
Turning abruptly into a dark passage, Sparks rushed upstairs, burst open a door and fell exhausted on the floor of the cheerless room occupied by poor Martha Reading. Almost at the same moment the two boys, who were at least a hundred yards in advance of the other pursuers, sprang into the room.
“Ha! run you down at last, have we?” gasped the Bloater.
Poor startled Martha, leaping at once to the conclusion that he was pursued, fell on her knees, and, in a voice of agonising entreaty, begged the boys to have mercy on him!
“Eh! hallo! what?” exclaimed the Bloater, taken by surprise. Then, under a sudden impulse, he dashed out of the room followed by Little Jim, and rushed into the street just as the first of the crowd came up.
“This way! Straight on! hooray!” he shouted, leading off the crowd in the direction of the river. The crowd followed. The Bloater led them into a maze of intricate back streets; shot far ahead of them, and then, doubling, like a hare, into a retired corner, stood chuckling there while the shouting crowd swept by.
For a few minutes, Little Jim was utterly bereft of speech, owing to a compound of amazement, delight, excitement and exhaustion. After a little time he said—
“Well, this is a lark! But, I say, Bloater, d’ye think it was right to let ’im off like that?”
“Who’s let ’im off, stoopid?” retorted the Bloater.
“Don’t I know ’is name—at least part of it; an’ the ’abitation of ’is wife, or sweet-’eart, or sister, or suthin’ o’ that sort?”
“Oh, ah, werry true,” replied Little Jim, with a terminating “sk!”
“Well, that bein’ ’ow it is, we han’t let ’im off just yet, d’ye see? So, now we’ll go an’ turn in.”
With that observation the Bloater and Little Jim went away to search for and appropriate some convenient place of repose for the night.
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |