Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“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.
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
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