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

 

The folding-doors of the engine-house were wide open, and the engine itself, clean and business-like, with its brass-work polished bright, stood ready for instant action. Two of the firemen were conversing¹ at the open door, while several others could be seen lounging about inside. In one of the former Willie recognised the strong man who had collared him on a well-remembered occasion.

 

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

 

“Why, youngster,” said Dale, laying his hand on Willie’s head, “ain’t you the boy that pulled our bell for a lark² the other night?”

 

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

 

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

 

“I want to see him. He’s my brother.”

 

“Oh, indeed! You’ll find him inside.”

 

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

 

He found his brother writing at the little desk that stood in the window, while five or six of his comrades were chatting by the fire, and a group in a corner were playing draughts⁴, and spinning yarns⁵ of their old experiences. All assisted in loading the air with tobacco-smoke.

 

The round cloth caps worn by the men gave them a much more sailor-like and much less fireman-like appearance than the helmets, which, with their respective hatchets⁷, hung on the walls, rendering

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