One night, not long after the events narrated¹ in the last chapter, Frank Willders was standing² with the fireman-in-charge in the King Street Station. He had just removed his helmet, and the perspiration³ on his brow showed that he had been but recently engaged in some active duty; as indeed was the case, for he had just returned from a “walk” to a fire in Whitechapel.

 

“It was only a small affair,” said Frank, hanging up his helmet and axe⁴, and sitting down to fill his pipe; “a low beer-shop in Brook⁵ Street; the taproom burnt out, and the rest of the house damaged by smoke. It was pretty well over before I got there, and I left half an hour after. Where are the rest o’ the lads?”

 

“They’re out wi’ both engines,” said Baxmore, who was busy making a memorandum⁶ on a slate⁷.

 

“With both engines!” said Frank.

 

“Ay, both,” replied Baxmore, with a laugh, as he sat down in front of the fire. “Let me see; it’s now nine o’clock, so they’ve bin⁸ off an hour; one to Walton Street, Brompton; the other to Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. The call was the queerest I’ve seen for many a day. We was all sittin’ here smokin’ our pipes, as usual, when two fellers came to the door, full split, from opposite pints⁹ o’ the compass, an’ run slap into each other. They looked like gentlemen; but they was in such a state it wasn’t easy to make out what sort o’ fish they was. One had his coat torn and his hat gone; the other had his tile pretty well knocked down on his eyes—I s’pose by the people he run into on the way—an’ both were half-mad with excitement. They both stuttered, too—that was the fun o’ the thing, and they seemed to think each was takin’ off the other, and got into a most awful rage. My own opinion is, that one stuttered by nature, an’ the other stuttered from fright. Anyhow, they both stuttered together, and a precious mess they made of it.

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