Inside the House a hot debate was in progress on the following day.
Martial law for London had been suggested. It was a chance for
the handful of cranks and faddists not to be neglected. It was an
interference with the liberty of the subject and all the rest of it.
The debate was still on at ten o'clock when Fisher came back languidly
to the Press gallery. At eleven one of the champion bores was still
speaking. Suddenly an electric thrill ran through the House.
The dreary orator paused--perhaps he was getting a little tired of
himself. Something dramatic had happened. There was the curious tense
atmosphere that causes a tightening of the chest and a gripping of the
throat before actual knowledge comes. Heedless of all decorum, a member
stood behind the Speaker's chair, and called aloud:
[Illustration: The Hotel Cecil in flames.]
"The Hotel Cecil is on fire!" he yelled. "The place is well ablaze!"
Fisher darted from the gallery into the yard. Even the prosy
Demosthenes collapsed in the midst of his oration, and hurried out of
the House. There was no occasion to tell anybody what the magnitude of
the disaster meant. Everybody knew that in the face of such a disaster
the fire brigade would be useless.
In the Strand and along the approaches thereto, along the Embankment
and upon the bridges, a dense mass of humanity had gathered. They were
muffled in all sorts of strange and grotesque garments, but they did
not seem to heed the piercing cold.
In the Strand it was as light as day. A huge column of red and white
flame shot far into the sky, the steady roar of the blaze was like surf
on a stony beach. There was a constant crackle like musketry fire.
The magnificent hotel, one of the boldest and most prominent features
of the Strand and the Thames Embankment, was absolutely doomed. Now and
then the great showers of falling sparks would flutter and catch some
adjacent woodwork but all the roofs around were covered with firemen
who beat out the flames at once. Tons of snow were conveyed up the fire
escapes and by means of hastily rigged up pullies, so that gradually
the adjacent buildings became moist and cool. But for this merciful
presence of the snow, the south side of the Strand from Wellington
Street to Charing Cross might have passed into history.
As it was now, unless something utterly unforeseen occurred, the great
calamity had been averted. There was still much for the firemen to do.
"Let's get back to the office," Fisher said, with chattering teeth. "I
would sell my kingdom for a little hot brandy. I hope the next blizzard
we get we shall be more prepared for. I suppose that out in the States
they would make nothing of this. And we haven't got a single snow
plough worthy of the name this side of Edinburgh."
"We are ready for nothing," Gough grumbled. "If there had been a wind
to-night, nothing could have saved the Strand. The disaster may occur
again; indeed, there is certain to be a fire, half-a-dozen fires,
before daybreak. Given a good stiff breeze and where would London be?
It makes one giddy to think of it."
Gough said nothing. It was too cold even to think. Gradually the two of
them thawed out before the office fire. A languid sub came in with a
pile of flimsies. Quite as languidly Gough turned them over. His eyes
gleamed.
"My word," he gasped. "I hope this is true. They've had two days'
deluge in New York. We are to keep our eyes open for strong Westerly
gales with a deep depression----"
For the next two hours Fisher bent over his desk. The room seemed
warmer. Perhaps it was the brandy. He took off his sheepskin and then
his overcoat below. Presently a little bead of moisture grew on his
forehead. He drew a little further from the fire. He felt stifling and
faint, a desire for air came over him.
A little doubtful of his own condition he almost shamefacedly opened
the window. The air was cold and fresh and revived him, but it was not
the steely, polished, murderous air of the last few days. Somebody
passing over the snow below slipped along with a peculiar soaking
soddened sound.
Fisher craned his head out of the window. Something moist fell on the
nape of his neck. He yelled for Gough almost hysterically. Gough also
was devoid of his overcoat.
"I thought it was fancy," he said unsteadily.
Fisher answered nothing. The strain was released, he breathed freely.
And outside the whole, white, silent world was dripping, dripping,
dripping----
(_Next month Mr. White will tell the story of the "Four Days' Night."
He will depict London under the pall of a frightful fog. It is
another of the dangers that at any time might come upon London._)
[Illustration]