Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

Mr Thomas Tippet, beaming and perspiring as of old, was standing at his bench, chisel in hand, and Willie Willders was standing with his back to the fire, and his legs pretty wide apart; not because he preferred that dégagé attitude, but because Chips and Puss were asleep side by side between his feet.

It must not be supposed that although Willie had changed so much since the first day he stood there, an equal change had taken place in Mr Tippet. By no means. He was a little stouter, perhaps, but in all other respects he was the same man. Not a hair greyer, nor a wrinkle more.

The workshop, too, was in exactly the same state, only a little more crowded in consequence of numerous models having been completed and shelved during the last seven years. There was, however something new in the shape of a desk with some half-finished plans upon it; for Willie had gradually introduced a little genuine engineering into the business.

At first, naturally enough, the boy had followed his employer’s lead, and, as we have said before, being very ingenious, as well as enthusiastic, had entered with all his heart and head into the absurd schemes of his patron; but as he became older he grew wiser. He applied himself to reading and study at home in the evenings with indomitable perseverance.

The result of his application was twofold. In the first place he discovered that he was very ignorant and that there existed a huge illimitable field of knowledge worth entering on seriously. His early training having been conducted (thanks to his mother) “in the fear of the Lord,” he regarded things that are spiritual, and have God and man’s duty to Him for their object, as part—the chief part—of that great field of knowledge; not as a separate field which may or may not be entered on according to taste. In the second place, he began to discover that his kind-hearted employer was a monomaniac. In other words, that, although sane enough in all other matters, he was absolutely mad in regard to mechanical discoveries and inventions, and that most of the latter were absolutely nonsensical.

This second discovery induced him to prosecute his studies with all the more energy, in order that he might be prepared for the battle of life, in case his existing connection with Mr Tippet should be dissolved.

His studies naturally took an engineering turn, and, being what is termed a thorough-going fellow, he did not rest until he had dived into mathematics so deep that we do not pretend to follow him, even in the way of description. Architecture, surveying, shipbuilding, and cognate subjects, claimed and obtained his earnest attention; and year after year, on winter nights, did he sit at the side of the fire in the little house at Notting Hill, adding to his stores of knowledge on these subjects; while his meek old mother sat darning socks or patching male attire on the other side of the fire with full as much perseverance and assiduity. One consequence of this was that Willie Willders, having begun as a Jack-of-all trades, pushed on until he became a philosopher-of-all-trades, and of many sciences too, so that it would have been difficult to find his match between Charing Cross and Primrose Hill.

And Willie was not changeable. True to his first love, he clung with all the ardour of youth to fire, fire-engines, and the fire-brigade. He would have become a member of the latter if he could, but that was in the circumstances impossible. He studied the subject, however, and knew its history and its working details from first to last. He did his best to invent new engines and improve on old ones; but in such matters he usually found that his inventions had been invented, and his improvements made and improved upon, long before. Such checks, however, did not abate his ardour one jot. He persevered in his varied courses until he worked himself into a species of business which could exist only in London, which it would be difficult to describe, and which its practitioner styled “poly-artism” with as much boldness as if the word were in Johnson’s Dictionary!

Standing on the hearth, as we have said, Willie related to his friend all he knew in regard to the Cattley family, and wound up with an anxious demand what was to be done for them.

Mr Tippet, leaning on his bench and looking into Willie’s face with a benignant smile, said—

“Done, my boy? why, help ’em of course.”

“Ay, but how?” asked Willie.

“How?” cried Mr Tippet; “why, by giving ’em money. You are aware that I stopped their allowance because Cattley senior went and drank it as soon as he got it, and Cattley junior is able to support himself, and I was not until now aware that the poor daughter was killing herself to support her father; but as I do know it now I’ll continue the allowance and increase it, and we shall give it into the daughter’s hands, so that the father won’t be able to mis-spend it.”

Mr Tippet’s visage glowed with ardour as he stated this arrangement, but the glow was displaced by a look of anxiety as he observed that Willie shook his head and looked as perplexed as ever.

“If that plan would have availed I would have tried it long ago,” said he, with a sad smile, “for my income is a pretty good one, thanks to you, sir—”

“Thanks to your own genius, Willie, for the remarkable and prolific offshoots which you have caused to sprout from this dry old root,” said Mr Tippet, interrupting, as he glanced round the room with an air of affection, which showed that he loved the root dearly, despite its age and dryness.

“Not the less thanks to you, sir,” said Willie, in the deferential tone which he had assumed involuntarily towards his patron almost from the commencement of their intercourse; “but Z–—a—Miss Cattley positively refuses to accept of money from anyone in charity, as long as she can work.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr Tippet, shaking his head slowly, “pride, simple pride. Not laudable pride, observe. She deceives herself, no doubt, into the belief that it is laudable, but it is not; for, when a girl cannot work without working herself into her grave, it is her duty not to work, and it is the duty as well as the privilege of her friends to support her. Truth is truth, Willie, and we must not shrink from stating it because a few illogical thinkers are apt to misunderstand it, or because there are a number of mean-spirited wretches who would be too glad to say that they could not work without injuring their health if they could, by so doing, persuade their friends to support them. What! are those whom God has visited with weakness of body to be made to toil and moil far beyond their strength in order to prove that they do not belong to the class of deceivers and sycophants? Yet public opinion in regard to this matter of what is called self-respect and proper pride compels many hundreds who urgently require assistance to refuse it, and dooms many of them to a premature grave, while it does not shut the maw of a single one of the other class. Why, sir, Miss Cattley is committing suicide; and, in regard to her father, who is dependent on her, she is committing murder—murder, sir!”

Mr Tippet’s eyes flashed with indignation, and he drove the chisel deep down into the bench, as if to give point and force to his sentiment, as well as an illustration of the dreadful idea with which he concluded.

Willie admitted that there was much truth in Mr Tippet’s observations, but did not quite agree with him in his sweeping condemnation of Ziza.

“However,” continued Mr Tippet, resuming his quiet tone and benignant aspect, “I’ll consider the matter. Yes, I’ll consider the matter and see what’s to be done for ’em.”

He leaped from the bench with a quiet chuckle as he said this and began to saw vigorously, while Willie went to his desk in the corner and applied himself to an abstruse calculation, considerably relieved in mind, for he had unbounded belief in the fertility of Mr Tippet’s imagination, and he knew well that whatever that old gentleman promised he would certainly fulfil.