As the brothers drew near to the busy region of the City which lies to
the north of London Bridge; Frank turned aside into one of the narrow
streets that diverge from the main thoroughfare.
"Where are ye goin'?" inquired Willie.
"There was a fire here last night," said Frank; "I want to have a look
at the damage."
"A fire!" exclaimed Willie. "Why, Blazes, it strikes me there's bin
more fires than usual last night in London."
"Only two, lad."
"_Only_ two! How many would you have?" asked Willie with a laugh.
"Don't you know," said Frank, "that we have about four fires _every_
night? Sometimes more, sometimes fewer. Of course, we don't _all_ of
us turn out to them; but some of the brigade turn out to that number, on
an average, every night of the year."
"Are ye jokin', Frank?"
"Indeed I am not. I wish with all my heart I could say that I was
joking. It's a fact, boy. You know I have not been long in the force,
yet I've gone to as many as six fires in one night, and we _often_ go to
two or three. The one we are going to see the remains of just now was
too far from us for our engine to turn out; but we got the call to send
a man on, and I was sent. When I arrived and reported myself to Mr
Braidwood, the two top floors were burnt out, and the fire was nearly
got under. There were three engines, and the men were up on the
window-sills of the second-floor with the branches, playin' on the last
of the flames, while the men of the salvage-corps were getting the
furniture out of the first floor. Conductor Brown was there with his
escape, and had saved a whole family from the top floor, just before I
arrived. He had been changed from his old station at the West End that
very day. He's a wonderful fellow, that conductor! Many a life he has
saved; but, indeed, the same may be said of most of the men in the
force, especially the old hands. Here we are, lad. This is the house."
Frank stopped, as he spoke, in front of a ruined tenement, or rather, in
front of the gap which was now strewn with the charred and blackened
_debris_ of what had once been a house. The street in which it stood
was a narrow, mean one, inhabited by a poor, and, to judge from
appearance, a dissipated class. The remains of the house were guarded
by policemen, while a gang of men were engaged in digging among the
ruins, which still smoked a little here and there.
"What are they diggin' for?" asked Willie.
"I fear they are looking for dead bodies. The house was let out to
lodgers, and swarmed with people. At first it was thought that all were
saved; but just before I was ordered home after the fire was got under,
some one said that an old man and his grandchild were missing. I
suppose they're looking for them now."
On inquiring of a policeman, however, Frank learned that the remains of
the old man and his grandchild had already been found, and that they
were searching for the bodies of others who were missing. A little
beyond the spot where the fire had occurred, a crowd was gathered round
a man who stood on a chair haranguing them, with apparently considerable
effect, for ever and anon his observations were received with cries of
"Hear, hear," and laughter. Going along the middle of the narrow
street, in order to avoid the smell of the old-clothes'-shops and
pawnbrokers, as well as the risk of contact with their wares, Frank and
Willie elbowed their way through the crowd to within a few yards of the
speaker.
"What is he?" inquired Frank of a rather dissipated elderly woman.
"He's a clown or a hacrobat, or somethink of that sort, in one of the
theatres or music-'alls. He's bin burnt out o' his 'ome last night,
an's a-sellin' off all he's been able to save, by hauction."
"Come; now, ladies an' gents," cried the clown, taking up a rather
seedy-looking great-coat, which he held aloft with one hand, and pointed
to it with the other, "Who's agoin' to bid for this 'ere garment--a
hextra superfine, double-drilled, kershimere great-coat, fresh from the
looms o' Tuskany--at least it was fresh from 'em ten years ago (that was
when my grandfather was made Lord Mayor of London), an' its bin renewing
its youth (the coat, not the Lord Mayor) ever since. It's more glossy,
I do assure you, ladies and gents, than w'en it fust comed from the
looms, by reason of the pile havin' worn off; and you'll obsarve that
the glossiness is most beautiful and brightest about the elbows an' the
seams o' the back. Who bids for this 'ere venerable garment? Six bob?
Come now, don't all bid at once. Who said six bob?"
No reply being made to this, except a laugh, the clown (who, by the way,
wore a similarly glossy great-coat, with a hat to match) protested that
his ears must have deceived him, or his imagination had been whispering
hopeful things--which was not unlikely, for his imagination was a very
powerful one--when he noticed Frank's tall figure among the crowd.
"Come now, fireman, this is the wery harticle you wants. You comed out
to buy it, I know, an' 'ere it is, by a strange coincidence, ready-made
to hand. What d'ye bid? Six bob? Or say five. I know you've got a
wife an' a large family o' young firemen to keep, so I'll let it go
cheap. P'raps it's too small for you; but that's easy put right.
You've only got to slit it up behind to the neck, which is a' infallible
cure for a tight fit, an' you can let down the cuffs, which is double,
an' if it's short you can cut off the collar, an' sew it on to the
skirts. It's water-proof, too, and fire-proof, patent asbestos. W'en
it's dirty you've got nothin' to do but walk into the fire, an' it'll
come out noo. W'en it's thoroughly wet on the houtside, turn it hinside
hout, an' there you are, to all appearance as dry as bone. What! you
won't have it at no price? Well, now, I'll tempt you. I'll make it
_two_ bob."
"Say one," cried a baker, who had been listening to this, with a broad
grin on his floury countenance.
"Ladies and gents," cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity;
"there's an individual in this crowd--I beg parden, this assemblage--as
asks me to say `one.' I _do_ say `one,' an' I say it with melancholy
feelin's as to the liberality of my species. One bob! A feller-man as
has bin burnt hout of 'is 'ome an' needs ready money to keep 'im from
starvation, offers his best great-coat--a hextra superfine,
double-drilled (or milled, I forget w'ich) kershimere, from the looms o'
Tuskany--for one bob!"
"One-an'-six," muttered an old-clothes-man, with a black cotton sack on
his shoulder.
"One-an'-six," echoed the clown with animation; "one-an'-six bid;
one-an'-six. Who said one-an'-seven? Was it the gent with the red
nose?--No, one-an'-six; goin' at the ridiculously low figure of
one-an'-six--gone! as the old 'ooman said w'en her cat died o'
apple-plexy. Here you are; hand over the money. I can't knock it down
to you, 'cause I haven't a hauctioneer's 'ammer. Besides, it's agin' my
principles. I've never knocked nothin' down, not even a skittle, since
I joined the Peace Society.
"Now, ladies an' gents, the next thing I've got to hoffer is a
harm-chair. Hand up the harmchair, Jim."
A very antique piece of furniture was handed up by a little boy, whom
Willie recognised as the little boy who had once conversed with him in
front of the chocolate-shop in Holborn Hill.
"Thank you, my son," said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and
patting the boy's head with the other; "this, ladies and gents," he
added in a parenthetical tone, "is my son; _he's_ bin burnt hout of
'ouse an' 'ome, too! Now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the
wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. In the
embrace o' this 'ere chair has sat for generations past the family o'
the Cattleys--that's _my_ name, ladies an gents, at your service. Here
sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his
great-grandfather sat in it too. Here sat his son, and his son's son--
the Lord Mayor as was--and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who
died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the 'ighest bidder.
You'll observe its antiquity, ladies an' gents. That's its beauty.
It's what I may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of
_virtoo_, w'ich means that it's a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous
memories in connection with the defunct. Now then, say five bob for the
hold harm-chair!"
While the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, Willie
pushed his way to the side of Jim Cattley.
"I say, youngster, would you like a cup o' chocolate?" began Willie by
way of recalling to the boy their former meeting.
Jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said,
"Come, I don't want none o' your sauce!"
"It ain't sauce I'm talkin' of, it's chocolate," retorted Willie. "But
come, Jim, I don't want to bother ye. I'm sorry to see you an yer dad
in sitch a fix. Have you lost much?"
"It's not what we've lost that troubles us," said Jim, softened by
Willie's sympathetic tone more than by his words; "but sister Ziza is
took bad, an' she's a fairy at Drury Lane, an' takin' her down the
fire-escape has well-nigh killed her, an' we've got sitch a cold damp
cellar of a place to put her in, that I don't think she'll get better at
all; anyhow, she'll lose her engagement, for she can't make two speeches
an' go up in a silver cloud among blue fire with the 'flooenzer, an 'er
'air all but singed off 'er 'ead."
Jim almost whimpered at this point, and Willie, quitting his side
abruptly, went back to Frank (who was still standing an amused auditor
of the clown), and demanded a shilling.
"What for, lad?"
"Never you mind, Blazes; but give me the bob, an' I'll pay you back
before the week's out."
Frank gave him a shilling, with which he at once returned to Jim, and
thrusting it into his hand, said:
"There, Jim, your dad's hard up just now. Go you an' get physic with
that for the fairy. Them 'floo-enzers is ticklish things to play with.
Where d'ye stop?"
"Well, you _are_ a queer 'un; thank'ee all the same," said Jim,
pocketing the shilling. "We've got a sort o' cellar just two doors east
o' the burnt 'ouse. Why?"
"'Cause I'll come an' see you, Jim. I'd like to see a live fairy in
plain clo'se, with her wings off--"
The rest of the sentence was cut short by the clown, who, having
disposed of the old arm-chair to a chimney-sweep, ordered Jim to "'and
up another harticle." At the same moment Frank touched Willie on the
shoulder, and said, "Let's go, lad; I'll be late, I fear, for the
gymnastics."
At the period of which we write, the then Chief of the London Fire
Brigade, Mr Braidwood, had introduced a system of gymnastic training
among the firemen, which he had found from experience to be a most
useful exercise to fit the men for the arduous work they had to perform.
Before going to London to take command of and reorganise the brigade
which then went by the name of the London Fire-Engine Establishment, and
was in a very unsatisfactory condition, Mr Braidwood had, for a long
period, been chief of the Edinburgh Fire Brigade, which he had brought
to a state of great efficiency. Taking the requirements and conditions
of the service in Edinburgh into consideration, he had come to the
conclusion that the best men for the work in that city were masons,
house-carpenters, slaters, and suchlike; but these men, when at their
ordinary employments, being accustomed to bring only certain muscles
into full play, were found to have a degree of stiffness in their
general movements which prevented them from performing their duty as
firemen with that ease and celerity which are so desirable. To obviate
this evil he instituted the gymnastic exercises, which, by bringing all
the muscles of the body into action, and by increasing the development
of the frame generally, rendered the men lithe and supple, and in every
way more fitted for the performance of duties in which their lives
frequently depended on their promptitude and vigour.
In addition to these advantages, it was found that those exercises gave
the men confidence when placed in certain situations of danger. "For
example," writes Mr Braidwood, "a fireman untrained in gymnastics, on
the third or fourth floor of a burning house, with the branch in his
hands, who is uncertain as to his means of escape, in the event of his
return by the stair being cut off, will be too much concerned about his
own safety to render much service, and will certainly not be half so
efficient as the experienced gymnast, who, with a hatchet and eighty
feet of rope at his waist, and a window near him, feels himself in
comparative security, knowing that he has the means and the power of
lowering himself easily and safely into the street"--a knowledge which
not only gives him confidence, but enables him to give his undistracted
attention to the exigencies of the fire.
It was to attend this gymnastic class that Frank now turned aside, and
proposed to bid Willie goodbye; but Willie begged to be taken into the
room. Frank complied, and the boy soon found himself in an apartment
fitted up with all the appliances of a gymnasium, where a number of
powerful young men were leaping, vaulting, climbing, and in other ways
improving their physical powers. Frank joined them, and for a long time
Willie stood in rapt and envious contemplation of the busy scene.
At first he could not avoid feeling that there seemed a good deal more
of play than business in their doings; but his admiration of the scene
deepened when he remembered the bold acts of the firemen at Beverly
Square, and recognised some of the faces of the men who had been on duty
there, and reflected that these very men, _who seemed thus to be playing
themselves_, would on that very night, in all probability, be called
upon to exert these powers sternly and seriously, yet coolly, in the
midst of scenes of terror and confusion, and in the face of imminent
personal danger.
Brooding over these things, Willie, having at length torn himself away,
hastened on his pilgrimage to London Bridge.