The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet's
dwelling and walked briskly away. On turning a corner he came upon one
of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against
the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant way, as though they
knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome
war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.
On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the
moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal
habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest. Sam himself was
leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing
contemplatively along the street.
"Well, Sam, what news?" inquired Frank as he came up.
"That you, Willders?" said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on
his good-humoured features. "I thought it must be the giant they're
exhibitin' in Saint James's Hall just now, takin' a stroll at night to
escape the boys. Why, when do you mean to stop growing?"
"I don't mean to interfere with Nature at all," replied Frank; "and I
believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow
to."
"Well, what's the news?" inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow
residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his
friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world
for himself.
"Nothing particular," said Frank, leaning against the escape; "only a
chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a
first-floor burnt out the day before."
"How's Thompson?" asked Forest.
"Poorly, I fear," said Frank, with a shake of his head. "The sprained
ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the
injury to his spine from the engine is more serious."
"Ah! poor fellow!" said Forest, "he's just a little too reckless. How
came he by the sprain?"
"It was in the basement of a bookbinder's in Littleton Street," said
Frank, lighting a cigar. "We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting
there found three engines at work. Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to
go down into the basement. It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that
I couldn't see half-an-inch before my nose. We broke through the
windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water. The engines had been
at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than
we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it,
an' before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four
feet deep. I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst. He rose
gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out. It was in
trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain. You've
heard how he came by the other mishap?"
"Yes, it was gallopin' down Ludgate Hill, wasn't it?"
"Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and
before he got up it was on him. By good fortune it did not go over him;
it only bruised his back; but it's worse than we thought it would be, I
fear."
"Ah! one never knows," said Forest gravely. "There's one man Jackson,
now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had
brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping
for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him. We all
thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not
five minutes after he steps out of a window all right--only a scratch or
two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of
stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his
ankle so bad that he's bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the
boy."
"Ah! it was worth the sprain," said Frank.
"It was," responded Forest.
"Well, good-night," said Frank, resuming his walk.
Samuel Forest responded "good-night," and then, getting into his box,
sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two,
trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a
corner, began to peruse it.
Sam was of a literary turn of mind. He read a great deal during his
lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours
were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box. His helmet
hung on a peg beside him. His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small
cap covered his head. Looking at him in his snug and brightly
illuminated little apartment, he appeared--by contrast with the
surrounding darkness--inexpressibly comfortable. Nevertheless, Sam
Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and
that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a
biting December night.
While deeply immersed in his book, Sam heard the sound of approaching
footsteps, and pricked up his ears. He was a good judge of such sounds.
As they drew near, he quietly took off his cap, put on his helmet, and
stepped from his box. The street was very silent; and, perhaps, not one
of the hundreds of sleepers there thought of the solitary man who held
vigil, and was so alert to do them service, if the hour of their
extremity should come.