HIS opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and,
disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket.
Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back
and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.
“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.
“That’s your total figure, my lad.”
Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion
that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry. Striking his own
ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk.
Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot
white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he
changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared
to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.
“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than
I can—”
A bell rang. On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room;
Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace
his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it
resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments
were wasted. As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made
a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two
of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump
sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an
assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses. Above the clanging
and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for
anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were
probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing
old and cross and tired.
“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.
“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained. “Didn’t you
know? You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of
postman’s knock. But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it
out soon as we possibly can. Remember that, won’t you? Not to make it
burn brighter, but to put it out. It’s done with the aid of a syphon of
soda. You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say
when!’ and then—”
Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the
wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made.
Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway;
tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely. The engine managed
to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch,
told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.
“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we
have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”
Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of
water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the
nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off
and opposite showed nothing more than interest. Furniture hurled out of
windows, with now and again a smash. The firemen went about their work
alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to
obey. More engines arriving and two ladders. On the second floor of one
of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.
“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.
“All out, sir.”
“Sure?”
Mrs. Mather was called. Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with
children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her
entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count
them. One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here. Mather
himself away on a job at Silvertown. All the dear, blessed youngsters
safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Mather had
never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s
Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that? Six?
No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady. Bless
Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many
children she possessed. There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next
Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of
self-reproof, begged to apologise. The neighbour was correct. Mrs.
Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of
it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the
kid.
“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent. “Up you go,
and do your very best.”
Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were
darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared. There was
a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low
whistle. That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards. That relieved
him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red
left in baulk. That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s
sweetheart coming round to the station.
“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.
The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter
reappeared at the top window. He had the baby in a shawl that was tied
at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in
the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly,
“Don’t stay up there; come down!”
“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.
“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady. “How I come to overlook the
fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you. I’m sure it’s
very kind of this gentleman. When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”
“You all right, Scotter?”
“Yes, thank you, sir. Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”
The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent
home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now
as in the old days. The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to
caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance.
People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road
demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was
out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves. Two
firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and
rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.
“Get off back, you lot. Scotter, you did uncommonly well. Just given
your name to some newspaper men. Married man? Not yet? I was going to
say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”
The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was
told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist. At the
station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat
bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and
extinguished it again. A move was made to the billiard-room.
“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the
marking-board. “Plain white and the red both in baulk.” Glancing at the
pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”
“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”
He took careful aim. Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it
went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled
down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket. Three
deducted from his score.
“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly.
“Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”