"Ned's had a bad fall, Phil," whispered Mrs Crashington, in a tremulous
tone that was so unlike her usual voice as to make Sparks look at her in
surprise not unmingled with anxiety.
"You don't mean to say, Mag, that he's a-goin' to--to--knock under?"
"I hope not, Phil, but--the doctor--"
Here the poor woman broke down altogether, and sobbed quietly as she led
her brother through the house, and into the little bed-room where the
injured fireman lay.
Ned's bruised, burned, and lacerated frame was concealed under a
patchwork coverlet. Only his face was visible, but that, although the
least injured part of his body, was so deadly pale that even Mr Sparks
was solemnised by the supposition that he was in the presence of Death.
"Oh, Ned, Ned!" exclaimed Maggie, unable to repress her grief, "can
you--can you ever forgive me?"
She laid her hand on the fireman's broad breast, and passionately kissed
his brow.
He opened his eyes, and whispered with difficulty, "Forgive you, Maggie?
God for ever bless you." He could say no more, owing to excessive
weakness.
"Come, missus, you mustn't disturb him," said David Clazie, emerging
from behind the curtains at the foot of the bed. "The doctor's orders
was strict--to keep 'im quiet. You'd better go into the other room, an'
your brother likewise. Pr'aps you might send 'im to tell Joe Dashwood
to be ready."
David Clazie, who was more a man of action than of words, quietly, but
firmly, ejected the brother and sister from the little room while he was
speaking, and, having shut the door, sat down at his post again as a
guard over his sick comrade.
"Seems to me it's all up with 'im," observed Sparks, as he stood gazing
uneasily into the fire.
As Mrs Crashington replied only by sobbing, he continued, after a few
minutes--
"Does the doctor say it's all up, Mag?"
"No, oh no," replied the poor woman, "he don't quite say so; but I can't
git no comfort from that. Ned has lost _such_ a quantity of blood, it
seems impossible for him to git round. They're goin' to try a operation
on 'im to-day, but I can't understand it, an' don't believe in it. They
talk of puttin' noo blood into 'im! An' that reminds me that the doctor
is to be here at twelve. Do run round, Phil, to the Dashwoods, and tell
Joe to be here in good time."
"What's Joe wanted for?"
"Never mind, but go and tell him that. I can't talk just now," she
said, pushing her brother out of the room.
Tapping at Joe Dashwood's door, Phil received from a strong, deep voice
permission to "come in." He entered, and found a very different state
of things from that which he had just left. A bright room, and bright,
happy faces. The windows were bright, which made the light appear
brighter than usual; the grate was bright; the furniture was bright; the
face of the clock, whose interior seemed about to explode on every
occasion of striking the hour, was bright--almost to smiling; and the
pot-lids, dish-covers, etcetera, were bright--so bright as to be
absolutely brilliant. Joe Dashwood and his little wife were conversing
near the window, but, although their faces were unquestionably bright by
reason of contentment, coupled with a free use of soap and the
jack-towel, there was, nevertheless, a shade of sadness in their looks
and tones. Nothing of the sort, however, appeared on the countenances
of the Rosebud and young Fred Crashington. These gushing little
offshoots of the Red Brigade were too young to realise the danger of
Ned's condition, but they were quite old enough to create an imaginary
fire in the cupboard, which they were wildly endeavouring to extinguish
with a poker for a "branch" and a bucket for a fire-engine, when Mr
Sparks entered.
"Oh! kik, Feddy, kik; put it out kik, or it'll bu'n down all 'e house,"
cried little May, eagerly, as she tossed back a cataract of golden curls
from her flushed countenance, and worked away at the handle of the
bucket with all her might.
"All right!" shouted Fred, who had been sent to play with the Rosebud
that he might be out of the way. "Down with Number 1; that's your sort;
keep 'er goin'; hooray!"
He brought the poker down with an awful whack on the cupboard at this
point, causing the crockery to rattle again.
"Hallo! youngster, mind what you're about," cried Joe, "else there will
be more damage caused by the engine than the fire--not an uncommon
thing, either, in our practice!"
It was at this point that he replied to Mr Sparks's knock.
"Come in, Mr Sparks, you've heard of your poor brother-in-law's
accident, I suppose?"
"Yes, I've just comed from his house with a message. You're wanted to
be there in good time."
"All right, I'll be up to time," said Joe, putting on his coat and cap,
and smiling to his wife, as he added, "It's a queer sort o' thing to do.
We'll be blood-relations, Ned and I, after this. Look after these
youngsters, Molly, else they'll knock your crockery to bits. Good-day.
Mr Sparks."
"Good-day," replied Sparks, as Joe went out. Then, turning to Mrs
Dashwood, "What sort of operation is it they're goin' to perform on
Ned?"
"Did you not hear? It's a very curious one. Ned has lost so much blood
from a deep cut in his leg that the doctors say he can't recover, no
matter how strong his constitution is, unless he gits some blood put
into him, so they're goin' to put some o' my Joe's blood into him."
"What!" exclaimed Sparks, "take blood out o' your husband and put it hot
and livin' into Ned? No, no, I've got a pretty big swallow, but I can't
git _that_ down."
"If you can't swallow it you'll have to bolt it, then, for it's a fact,"
returned Mary, with a laugh.
"But how do they mean to go about it?" asked Sparks, with an unbelieving
expression of countenance.
"Well, I ain't quite sure about that," replied Mary; "they say that the
doctor cuts a hole in a vein of the arms of both men, and puts a pipe,
or something of that sort, into the two veins, and so lets the blood run
from the one man into the other. I don't half believe it myself, to say
truth; but it's quite true that they're goin' to try it on Ned. The
doctor says it has bin tried before with great success, and that the
main thing is to get a stout, healthy young man to take the blood from.
They thought, at first, to get a healthy youth from the country, but my
Joe begged so hard to let him supply his friend and comrade, with what
they wanted, that they agreed, and now he's off to have it done. Ain't
it funny?"
"Funny!" exclaimed Sparks, "well, it is, just. But I'm not such a fool
as to believe that they can pump the blood out o' one man into another
in that fashion."
"I hope they can for poor Ned's sake," said Mary, in a sad tone, as she
stirred a large pot which stood simmering on the fire.
There was a short silence after that, for Mary was thinking of the
strange operation that was probably going on at that moment, and Phil
Sparks was debating with himself as to the propriety of attempting to
induce Mrs Dashwood to lend him a shilling or two. He could not easily
make up his mind, however; not because he was ashamed to ask it, but,
because he was afraid of receiving a rebuke from the pretty little
woman. He knew that she and Martha Reading were intimate friends, and
he had a suspicion that Mrs Dashwood was aware of Martha's fondness for
him, and that she bore him no good will in consequence. Besides,
although one of the sweetest tempered women in London, Mary was one
whose indignation could be roused, and whose clear blue eye had
something overawing in it, especially to scoundrels. He therefore sat
there more than an hour, conversing on various subjects, while Mary
busied herself in household matters; which she occasionally left off in
order to assist in extinguishing the fire in the cupboard!
At last Sparks resolved to make the attempt, and thought he would begin
by trying to propitiate Mary by commenting on her child.
"That's a pretty little girl of yours, missis," he remarked in a casual
way.
"That she is," cried Mary, catching up the child and kissing her rosy
face all over; "and she's better than pretty--she's good, good as gold."
"Oh 'top, ma. Let May down, kik! Fire not out yit!"
"That's right, never give in, May. Wot a jolly fireman you'd make!"
cried Fred, still directing all his energies to the cupboard.
"That's a queer sort o' helmet the boy's got on," said Sparks, alluding
to a huge leathern headpiece, of a curious old-fashioned form, which was
rolling about on the boy's head, being much too large for him.
"It was bought for him by my Joe, in an old curiosity shop," said Mary.
"Ha!" replied Sparks. "Well, Missis Dashwood, I'll have to be goin',
though I haven't got no business to attend to--still, a man must keep
movin' about, you know, specially w'en he's had no breakfast, an' han't
got nothin' to buy one."
"That's a sad condition," said Mary, pursing her lips, for she knew the
man.
"It is, missis. You couldn't lend me half-a-crown, could you?"
"No, I couldn't," replied the little woman with decision, while her
cheeks reddened; "moreover, I wouldn't if I could. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself, Mr Sparks; it's a disgrace for a man of your
strength and years to be goin' about borrowing as you're in the habit of
doin'; and you have got the impudence, too, to be running after poor
Martha Reading, but you shall never get her if I can prevent it."
Mr Sparks was much nettled by the first part of Mrs Dashwood's speech.
The last part put him in a towering passion. He started up, but had
the wisdom to restrain himself to some extent.
"Perhaps," he said, between his teeth, "you _can't_ prevent it, missis."
"Perhaps not, but I shall try."
At that moment, Master Fred Crashington chanced to stumble in his
energetic attempts to extinguish the fire in the cupboard, which the
Rosebud assured him, in excited tones, was "not out yit; gittin' wus an'
wus!" In falling, the old-fashioned helmet flew off, and the comb of it
hit Mr Sparks a severe blow on the shin-bone. In the heat of the
moment he dealt Fred a violent slap on the cheek, which sent him
tumbling and howling on the floor. At that moment the door opened and
Joe Dashwood entered.
He had heard the noise before entering, and now stood with a stern frown
on his face as he gazed at his wife and her visitor.
"Did _you_ do that?" he demanded of Sparks, pointing to the little boy.
"He did, Joe," said Mary; "but--"
Joe waited for no more. He seized Mr Sparks by the nape of the neck
with a grip that almost choked him--strong though he was--and thrust him
out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where he gave
him a final kick, and shut the door.
"Oh, dear Joe!" exclaimed Mary, on his return, "you shouldn't have been
so violent to 'im."
"W'y not, Molly? Surely you would not have me stand by and look on,
while he insulted you and knocked down the boy?"
"No, but it would have been a better rebuke if you had ordered him off
quietly. No good ever comes of violence, Joe, and he's such a spiteful,
vindictive man that he will never forgive you--perhaps he'll do you a
mischief if he ever gets the chance."
"I hope he will never get the chance," replied Joe. "I hope not, but I
fear him," said Mary. "But tell me, Joe, how has the operation
succeeded?"
"First-rate, Molly. Ned and I are blood-relations now! I don't know
how much they took out o' me, but it don't signify, for I am none the
worse, an' poor Ned seems much the better."
Here Joe entered into a minute detail of all that had been done--how a
puncture had been made in one of the veins of his arm, and another in
one of the veins of Ned's arm; and how the end of a small tube with a
bulb in the middle of it had been inserted into _his_ puncture, and the
other end into _Ned's_ puncture, and the blood pumped, as it were, from
the full-blooded man into the injured man until it was supposed that he
had had enough of it; and how Ned had already shown signs of revival
while he, (Joe), didn't feel the loss at all, as was made abundantly
evident by the energetic manner in which he had kicked Mr Sparks out of
his house after the operation was over.
To all this Mary listened with wide open eyes, and Fred Crashington
listened with wider open eyes; and little Rosebud listened with eyes and
mouth equally open--not that she understood anything of it, but because
the others were in that condition.
"Now, May, my pet," cried the fireman, catching up his little one and
tossing her in the air, "Ned, that is so fond of you, is a
blood-relation, so you may call him `uncle' next time he comes--uncle
Ned!"
"Unkil Ned," lisped the Rosebud.
"And me cousin," chimed in Fred.
"Iss--cuzn," responded May.
"Just so," cried Joe, seizing Fred round the waist and tossing him on
his right shoulder--Rosebud being already on his left--"come, I'll carry
you down the fire-escape now; hurrah! down we go."
How long Joe would have gone on playing with the children we cannot say,
for he was interrupted by the entrance of Bob and David Clazie.
"Come along, Joe," said the latter, "it's your turn to go along with us
to drill."
"It's 'ard work to 'ave to go playin' at fires doorin' the day, an'
puttin' of 'em out doorin' the night, Joe; ain't it?" said Bob Clazie.
"So 'tis Bob, but it must be done, you know. Duty first, pleasure
afterwards," replied Joe, with a laugh. "Besides, the green hands could
never learn how to do it if they hadn't some of the old uns to show 'em
the way."
"Hall right," replied Bob; "come along."
They left the room with a hearty "good-day" to Mrs Dashwood, and a nod
to the children.
Putting on the round sailor's caps which replaced the helmets when they
were not on actual service, the three firemen took their way towards the
city, and finally reached a large piece of open ground, where a number
of very old houses had been partly pulled down, to be soon replaced by
new ones. The Fire-Brigade had obtained permission to perform their
drill there until the ground should be required.
It was a curious waste place in the heart of the great city, with
rubbish cumbering the ground in front of the half demolished houses.
Here several ungainly fire-escapes leaned against the ruined walls, and
thrust their heads through broken windows, or stood on the ground,
rampant, as if eager to have their heads crammed into smoke and flames.
Here also were several manual engines, with their appropriate gearing
and hose, and near to these were grouped a band of as fine, fresh,
muscular young fellows as one could wish to see. These were the new
hands of the brigade--the young men, recently engaged, who were
undergoing drill. Each was a picked, and, to some extent, a proved man.
The lightest and least powerful among these men was a sturdy,
courageous fellow. He, like the others, had been tried at an old
fire-escape which stood in a corner of the yard, and which was unusually
large and cumbrous. If he had failed to "work" various portions of that
escape single-handed, without assistance, he would have been pronounced
physically unfit for the service. Courage and strength alone would not
have been sufficient. Weight, to a certain extent, was essential.
Among these youths were several of the older hands, and one or two
officers of the brigade, the latter being distinguished by brass
ornaments or "brasses" on their shoulders. They were there to
superintend and direct. In the midst of them stood their chief,
explaining the minutiae of the work they had to do.
When our three firemen reached the drill-ground the chief was showing
his recruits how to coil several lengths of the hose, so as to avoid a
twist or "kink," which might endanger its bursting when the water was
turned suddenly on by the powerful "steamers." He then pointed to the
tall empty buildings beside him and ordered his recruits to go into the
third floor of the premises, drag up the hose, and bring the branch to
bear on the back rooms, in which fire was supposed to be raging.
"Look alive, now," he said, "see how quickly you'll manage it."
Instantly the active youths sprang to their work. Some got the hose out
of the box of an engine and uncoiled it length by length towards the
house, others screwed the lengths together at the same time that the
water-trough was being set up and the suction-pipe attached. Meanwhile,
some had run up into the building, and from an upper window let down a
rope so as to be ready to drag up the hose when it was made long enough
to reach them. Thus they practised during the forenoon the mimic
warfare with the flames which they should have to carry into actual
operation at night. In another part of the yard a foreman was
instructing some recruits in the use of the fire-escape. Under a
neighbouring archway stood a small group of idlers looking on at these
stirring operations, one of these was Philip Sparks, another was the
Bloater. The interests of the first had taken him there, the second had
been led to the scene by his affections. Sparks did not observe the
Bloater, but the Bloater being unusually sharp, had observed Sparks,
and, with a look of surprise and glee at the unexpected sight, set
himself to watch and listen.
"That's him," growled Sparks in a low whisper, pointing to Joe Dashwood
as he entered the yard.
This was said to a dark-skinned, ill-looking, powerful man who stood at
his elbow. The man nodded in reply.
"Take a good look at him, Jeff; you'll know him again?"
Jeff nodded and guessed that he would.
"Well, then, West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the
fire-station. You won't forget?" whispered Sparks, as he and his
ill-looking friend slunk away.
"I say," observed the Bloater, poking Little Jim in the ribs, and
looking down at him with one eye shut, "you and I shall form an
engagement for Friday night--shan't we."
Little Jim opened his eyes very wide, pressed his mouth very tight, and
nodded his head violently.
"Well then," continued the Bloater, repeating Sparks's words in a deep
stage whisper, "West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the
fire-station. You won't forget?"
Little Jim again nodded his head, and uttered a little shriek of
delight. This attracted the notice of a policeman, who hinted, as
delicately as possible, that the boys had better "move on."
They took the hint, and retired precipitately.