Eline Simpson with a large handkerchief tied round her face, turned on
her bed and groaned. It was unfortunate for all concerned that Eline’s
bedroom was immediately above that occupied by Mr. John Stott and his
wife, although Eline’s groans had no serious effect upon that lady.
Mr. Stott had reached the stage where he waited with agonized
expectancy for the next boom of anguish; when it did not come he
was frantic, when it finally shivered the walls of his room, he was
maddened. Eline was an irregular groaner.
“Eline goes tomorrow!” he roared, and even Mrs. Stott heard him.
“She’s had her tooth out,” said Mrs. Stott sleepily.
“Go upstairs and tell that girl to get up and walk about--no, no, not
to walk about, to sit still.”
“M’m,” said Mrs. Stott, and sighed happily.
Mr. Stott glared at her and then came another groan from above. He got
out of bed and into his dressing-gown--it was really a kimono--and
trotted up the stairs.
“Eline!” he called in a hushed intense voice, suitable to the hour and
the occasion.
“Yes, sir,” pathetically.
“What the he-- why are you making such a--such a hullabaloo?”
“Oh, my tooth does ache, sir!” she wailed jerkily.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Scott, “how can it ache when it is at the
dentist’s? Don’t be a baby. Get up and take something, come downstairs,
dress yourself decently,” he warned her.
He went down into the dining-room and from a secret cupboard produced
a bottle with a boastful label. Into a tumbler he splashed a very
generous portion.
Eline came in a flannel dressing-gown and skirt. She looked scarcely
human.
“Drink this,” commanded Mr. Stott.
Eline took the glass timidly and examined it.
“I could never drink that, sir,” she said, awe-stricken.
“Drink it!” commanded Mr. Stott fiercely, “it is nothing.”
To prove that it was nothing, he poured himself out an even more
impressive quantity and tossed it down. In retaliation, the whiskey
almost tossed down Mr. Stott. At any rate, he staggered under the
shock. Fortunately for his reputation as a hard and easy drinker, Eline
was oblivious to everything except a sense of complete suffocation
accompanied by a feeling that she had swallowed a large ladleful of
molten lead. So she did not see Mr. Stott gasping like a fish and
clutching his throat.
“Oh, sir--what was it?” she found voice to ask.
“Whiskey,” said Mr. Stott in a strangled voice, “neat whiskey! It is
nothing.”
Eline had never drunk neat whiskey before. It seemed to her, as
whiskey, distinctly untidy. It had sharp edges. She could only look
upon her employer with a new born respect.
“It is nothing,” said Mr. Stott again. Now that it was all over it
seemed at any rate, easy. He was an abstemious man and in truth had
never tasted whiskey in its undiluted state. Bravado had made him do
it, but now that it was done, he had no regrets.
“How’s your tooth?”
“Fine, sir,” said Eline gratefully. She experienced a wonderful sense
of exhilaration. So did Mr. Stott.
“Sit down, Eline,” he pointed grandly to a chair.
Eline smiled foolishly and sat.
“I have always been a very heavy drinker,” said Mr. Stott gravely. “My
father was before me. I am what is known as a three-bottle man.”
He wondered at himself as he spoke. His maligned parent had been a
Baptist minister.
“Goodness!” said Eline impressed, “and there are only two bottles on
the sideboard!”
Mr. Stott looked.
“There is only one, Eline,” he said severely, and looked again. “Yes,
perhaps you’re right.” He closed first one eye and then the other.
“Only one,” he said.
“Two,” murmured Eline defiantly.
“We Stotts have always been devil-may-care fellows,” said Mr. Stott
moodily. “Into one scrape and out of another. Hard drinking, hard
riding, hard living men, the salt of the earth, Eline.”
“There are three bottles!” said Eline in wonderment.
“My father fought Kid McGinty for twenty-five rounds.” Mt. Stott shook
his head. “And beat him to--to--a jelly. Hard fighters every one of us.
By heaven,” he said, his pugilistic mood reviving certain memories, “if
I had laid my hands on that scoun’rel...!”
He walked heavily, rose and walked with long strides into the hall.
Eline scenting action, followed. Her strides were not so long, but
longer than she expected. Mr. Stott was standing on the doorstep, his
hands on his hip, his legs apart, and he was looking disparagingly at
Mayfield.
“Come any more of your tricks--and look out!” he challenged. “You’ll
find a Stott--”
Eline clutched his arm frenziedly.
“Oh sir--there’s somebody there!”
Undoubtedly there was somebody there; a light was showing in the front
room, a red and uncertain light. And then a door closed loudly.
“Somebody there--?”
Mr. Stott strode down the steps furiously. Even when he strode down a
step that wasn’t there, he did not lose his poise.
“Somebody there--?”
He remembered mistily that the gardener had a lazy habit of leaving
his spade beneath the trimmed hedge that marked the boundaries of his
property.
“You’ll catch your death of cold, dear,” wailed Eline outrageously.
But Mr. Stott neither observed the uncalled-for endearment, nor the
rain that soaked him, nor the wind that flapped his dressing-gown
loose. He groped for the spade and found it, just as a car came
smashing through the frail gate of Mayfield.
“Hi, you, sir!” shouted Mr. Stott fiercely, “what in hell do you mean,
sir!”
He stood in the centre of the road, brandishing his spade--the
mud-guard of the car just missed him.
Mr. Stott turned and stared after.
“Disgusting--no lights!” he said.
But there were lights in Mayfield, white and red and yellow lights,
that flickered up in long caressing tongues.
“Fire!” said Mr. Stott thickly.
He staggered up to the door of Mayfield and brought his spade down upon
the narrow glass panel with a crash. Putting in his hand, he found the
knob of the door and fell into the passage.
“Fire!” boomed Mr. Stott.
He had an idea that something ought to be done--a feeling that somebody
should be rescued. The dining-room was blazing at the window end and by
the light he saw an open door. Below was a glow of steady illumination.
“Anybody there?” shouted Mr. Stott.
And then a shiver ran down his spine for a distant voice called:
“Here!”
“Fire!” yelled Mr. Stott, and stumbled down the steps. The voice came
from a door.
“Wait, I’ll kick out the key.”...
There was a sound of metallic scraping and something hit the brick-work
at his feet.
Mr. Stott frowned at it. A key.
“Open the door,” said the voice urgently.
Mr. Stott stooped and picked it up, made three shots at the keyhole and
at last got it.
A man doubled up as if in pain, shuffled out.
“Unfasten the strap,” he commanded.
“There’s a fire,” said Mr. Stott impressively.
“So I observe, quick!”
Stott unbuckled the strap and the man stood up.
“Get those papers--on the table,” said the strange man. “I can’t touch
them, I’m handcuffed behind.”
The rescuer obeyed.
The passage was thick with smoke and suddenly all lights went out.
“Now run!” hissed Tab and Mr. Stott, still gripping his spade, groped
forward. At the foot of the steps he paused. The heat was fierce, the
flames were curling down over the top step.
“Whack the floor--the carpet with your spade and run--don’t worry about
me!”
Mr. Stott made a wild rush up the stairs, striking more wildly at the
floor. The smoke blinded him; he was scorched, he felt his few locks
shrivel in the heat.
And then Tab Holland behind pushed him with his shoulder and it seemed
to Mr. Stott that he was being thrown into the fiery furnace. He
uttered one yell and leapt. In a fraction of a second he was in the
passage--gasping and alive.
“Outside...!”
Tab thrust his shoulder again at the dazed man and Mr. Stott walked
out into the rain just as the first fire engine came clanging into the
street.
“There _is_ a fire,” said Mr. Stott with satisfaction. “Come and have a
drink.”
Tab wanted something more than a drink. He saw a running policeman and
hailed him.
“Officer, can you unlock these handcuffs? I’m Holland of the
‘Megaphone’. Good business!”
A turn of the key and he was free.
He stretched his aching arms.
“Com’n have a drink,” urged Mr. Stott, and Tab thought that the
suggestion was not altogether foolish.
They came to Mr. Stott’s dining-room to find Eline singing in a high
falsetto voice, a voice which had aroused even Mrs. Stott, for that
good lady, in dishabille, was regarding the musical Eline with wonder
and shame when they arrived.
The good lady staggered at the appearance of her husband. Tab seemed a
less notable phenomenon--even the vocal Eline faded from the picture.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked tearfully.
“There’s been a fire,” murmured her husband.
He glared at Eline fiendishly and pointed to the door.
“Shut up, girl! Go to bed! You’re fired--you’re the secon’ fire
tonight!”
He was so overcome by his witticism that he relapsed into what promised
to be continuous laughter. The clang of another engine arrested his
merriment, and he stalked out of the house.
“I don’t think Mr. Stott is quite well,” said Mrs. Stott in a tremulous
voice. “I--be quiet, Eline! Singing sacred songs at this hour of the
morning!”
And then came Mr. Stott in a hurry, and behind him, Carver.
“Thank God, my boy--I never expected--!”
Carver found a difficulty in speaking.
“I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott loudly.
His face was black, what of his dressing-gown was not singed, was
sodden. He flourished the spade.
“I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott with dignity. “We Stotts come of a hard
bit’n race. My father was a firem’n--he rescued thousan’s from burnin’.”
Here he was getting near to the truth, for, as had been before
remarked, Mr. Stott’s father was a Baptist minister.