Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Ah, you needn’t grin, mother, an’ tell me that the ‘policemen’ are a fine set of men, and quite as brave and useful in their way as the firemen. I know all you respectable sort of people think that; but I don’t. They’re my natural enemies, and I hate ’em. Come, mother, give me the socks and let me be off.”
Soon the vigorous urchin was on his way to the City, whistling, as usual, with all his might. As he passed the corner of the British Museum a hand touched him on the shoulder, and its owner said:
“How much are ye paid a week, lad, for kicking up such a row?”
Willie looked round, and his eyes encountered the brass buckle of the waist-belt of a tall, strapping fellow in a blue uniform. Glancing upwards, he beheld the handsome countenance of his brother Frank looking down at him with a quiet smile. He wore no helmet, for except when attending a fire the firemen wear a sailor-like blue cloth cap.
“Hallo, Blazes! is that you?” cried the boy.
“Just so, Willie; goin’ down to Watling Street to attend drill.”
Willie (who had styled his brother “Blazes” ever since he joined the fire brigade) observed that he happened to be going in the same direction to deliver a message from his mother to a relation, which he would not speak about, however, just then, as he wished to tell him of a fire he had been at last night.
“A fire, lad; was it a big one?”
“Ay, that it was; a case o’ burnin’-out almost; and there were lives saved,” said the boy with a look of triumph; “and that’s more than you can say you’ve seen, though you are a fireman.”
“Well, you know I have not been long in the brigade, Willie, and as the escapes often do their work before the engines come up, I’ve not had much chance yet of seeing lives saved. How was it done?”
With glowing eyes and flushed cheeks Willie at once launched out into a vivid description of the scene he had so recently witnessed, and dwelt particularly on the brave deeds of Conductor Forest and the tall fireman. Suddenly he looked up at his brother.
“Why, what are you chucklin’ at, Blazes?”
“Nothing, lad. Was the fireman very tall?”
“That he certainly was—uncommon tall.”
“Something like me?” said Frank.
A gleam of intelligence shot across the boy’s face as he stopped and caught his brother by the sleeve, saying earnestly:
“It wasn’t you, Frank, was it?”
“It was, Willie, and right glad am I to have been in such good luck as to save Miss Auberly.”
Willie grasped his brother’s hand and shook it heartily.
“You’re a brick, Blazes,” said he, “and this is your birthday, an’ I wish you luck an’ long life, my boy. You’ll do me credit yet, if you go on as you’ve begun. Now, I’ll go right away back an’ tell mother. Won’t she be fit to bu’st?”
“But what about your message to the relation in the City?” inquired Frank.
“That relation is yourself, and here’s the message, in the shape of a pair o’ socks from mother; knitted with her own hands; and, by the way, that reminds me—how came you to be at the fire last night? It’s a long way from your station.”
“I’ve been changed recently,” said Frank; “poor Grove was badly hurt about the loins at a fire in New Bond Street last week, and I have been sent to take his place, so I’m at the King Street station now. But I have something more to tell you before you go, lad, so walk with me a bit farther.”
Willie consented, and Frank related to him his conversation with Mr Auberly in reference to himself.
“I thought of asking leave and running out this afternoon to tell you, so it’s as well we have met, as it will—Why, what are you chuckling at, Willie?”
This question was put in consequence of the boy’s eyes twinkling and his cheeks reddening with suppressed merriment.
“Never mind, Blazes. I haven’t time to tell you just now. I’ll tell you some other time. So old Auberly wants to see me to-morrow forenoon?”
“That’s what he said to me,” returned Frank.
“Very good; I’ll go. Adoo, Blazes—farewell.”
So saying, Willie Willders turned round and went off at a run, chuckling violently. He attempted to whistle once or twice, but his mouth refused to retain the necessary formation, so he contented himself with chuckling instead. And it is worthy of record that that small boy was so much engrossed with his own thoughts on this particular occasion that he did not make one observation, bad, good, or indifferent, to any one during his walk home. He even received a question from a boy smaller than himself as to whether “his mother knew he was out,” without making any reply, and passed innumerable policemen without even a thought of vengeance!
“Let me see,” said he, muttering to himself as he paused beside the Marble Arch at Hyde Park, and leaned his head against the railings of that structure; “Mr Auberly has been an’ ordered two boys to be sent to him to-morrow forenoon—ha! he! sk!” (the chuckling got the better of him here)—“very good. An’ my mother has ordered one o’ the boys to go, while a tall fireman has ordered the other. Now, the question is, which o’ the two boys am I—the one or the t’other—ha! sk! ho! Well, of course, both o’ the boys will go; they can’t help it, there’s no gittin’ over that; but, then, which of ’em will git the situation? There’s a scruncher for you, Mr Auberly. You’ll have to fill your house with tar an’ turpentine an’ set fire to it over again ’afore you’ll throw light on that pint. S’pose I should go in for both situations! It might be managed. The first boy could take a well-paid situation as a clerk, an the second boy might go in for night-watchman at a bank.” (Chuckling again interrupted the flow of thought.) “P’raps the two situations might be got in the same place o’ business; that would be handy! Oh! if one o’ the boys could only be a girl, what a lark that would—sk! ha! ha!”
He was interrupted at this point by a shoe-black, who remarked to his companion:
“I say, Bob, ’ere’s a lark. ’Ere’s a feller bin an got out o’ Bedlam, a larfin’ at nothink fit to burst hisself!”
So Willie resumed his walk with a chuckle that fully confirmed the member of the black brigade in his opinion.
He went home chuckling and went to bed chuckling, without informing his mother of the cause of his mirth. Chuckling he arose on the following morning, and, chuckling still, went at noon to Beverly Square, where he discovered Mr Auberly standing, gaunt and forlorn, in the midst of the ruins of his once elegant mansion.
“Well, boy, what do you want? Have you anything to say to me?”
Mr Auberly turned sharp round on Willie, whose gaze had gone beyond the length of simple curiosity. In fact, he was awe-struck at the sight of such a very tall and very dignified man standing so grimly in the midst of such dreadful devastation.
“Please, sir, I was sent to you, sir, by—”
“Oh, you’re the boy, the son of—that is to say, you were sent to me by your mother,” said Mr Auberly with a frown.
“Well, sir,” replied Willie, hesitating, “I—I—was sent by—by—”
“Ah, I see,” interrupted Mr Auberly with a smile that was meant to be gracious, “you were sent by a fireman; you are not the—the—I mean you’re the other boy.”
Poor Willie, being of a powerfully risible nature, found it hard to contain himself on hearing his own words of the previous evening re-echoed thus unexpectedly. His face became red, and he took refuge in blowing his nose, during which process—having observed the smile on Mr Auberly’s face—he resolved to be “the other boy.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, looking up modestly, “I was sent by a fireman; I am the other boy.”
Mr Auberly smiled again grimly, and said that the fireman was a brave fellow, and that he had saved his daughter’s life, and that he was very glad to do anything that lay in his power for him, and that he understood that Willie was the fireman’s brother; to which the boy replied that he was.
“Well, then, come this way,” continued Mr Auberly, leading Willie into the library of the adjoining house, which his friend had put at his disposal, and seating himself at a writing-table. “You want a situation of some sort—a clerkship, I suppose?”
Willie admitted that his ambition soared to that tremendous height.
“Let me see,” muttered Mr Auberly, taking up a pen and beginning to write; “yes, she will be able to help me. What is your name, boy?”
“Willie, sir.”
“Just so, William; and your surname—your other name?”
“Willders, sir.”
Mr Auberly started, and looked Willie full in the eyes. Willie, feeling that he was playing a sort of double part without being able to avoid it, grew red in the face.
“What did you say, boy?”
“Willders,” replied Willie stoutly.
“Then you’re not the other boy,” said Mr Auberly, laying down his pen, and regarding Willie with a frown.
“Please, sir,” replied Willie, with a look of meekness which was mingled with a feeling of desperation, for his desire to laugh was strong upon him, “please, sir, I don’t rightly know which boy I am.”
Mr Auberly paused for a moment.
“Boy, you’re a fool!”
“Thank ’ee, sir,” said Willie.
This reply went a long way in Mr Auberly’s mind to prove the truth of his assertion.
“Answer me, boy,” said Mr Auberly with an impressive look and tone; “were you sent here by a fireman?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Willie.
“What is his name?”
“Same as mine, sir—Willders.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr Auberly, a little confused at having put such an unnecessary question. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
This brought the slang phrase, “Does your mother know you’re out?” so forcibly to the boy’s mind, that he felt himself swell internally, and had recourse again to his pocket-handkerchief as a safety-valve.
“Yes, sir,” said he, on recovering his composure; “arter I saw Blazes—Frank, I mean, that’s my brother, sir—I goes right away home to bed. I stops with my mother, sir, an’ she saw me come off here this mornin’, sir. She knows I was comin’ here.”
“Of course; yes, yes, I see,” muttered Mr Auberly, again taking up his pen. “I see; yes, yes; same name—strange coincidence, though; but, after all, there are many of that name in London. I suppose the other boy will be here shortly. Very odd, very odd indeed.”
“Please, sir,” observed Willie, in a gentle tone, “you said I was the other boy, sir.”
Mr Auberly seemed a little annoyed at his muttered words being thus replied to, yet he condescended to explain that there was another boy of the same name whom he expected to see that morning.
“Oh, then there’s another other boy, sir?” said Willie with a look of interest.
“Hold your tongue!” said Mr Auberly in a sharp voice; “you’re a fool, and you’re much too fond of speaking. I advise you to keep your tongue quieter if you wish to get on in life.”
Willie once more sought relief in his pocket-handkerchief, while his patron indited and sealed an epistle, which he addressed to “Miss Tippet, Number 6, Poorthing Lane, Beverly Square.”
“Here, boy, take this to the lady to whom it is addressed—the lane is at the opposite corner of the square—and wait an answer.”
“Am I to bring the answer back to you, sir?” asked Willie with much humility.
“No; the answer is for yourself,” said Mr Auberly testily; “and hark ’ee, boy, you need not trouble me again. That note will get you all you desire.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Willie, making a bow, and preparing to retire; “but please, sir, I don’t very well know, that is to say—ahem!”
“Well, boy?” said the patron sternly.
“Excuse me, sir; I can’t help it, you know; but please, sir, I
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