Dont let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket! exclaimed Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.
Where? exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into the centre of a mass of papers.
There, just at your feet; dont be so nervous, girl! cried Mrs Rose.
Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous woman, seized the basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby fanning the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She succeeded, however, in cramming the basket and its contents into the grate; then the two, with the aid of poker, tongs, and shovel, crushed and beat out the fire.
There! I said youd do it, gasped Mrs Rose, as she flung herself, panting, into Mr Auberlys easy-chair; this comes of bein in a hurry.
I was always unfortnit, sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on the smallest spark that should venture to show itself.
Come, now, well go to bed, said Mrs Rose, rising, but first look well round to see that all is safe.
A thorough and most careful investigation was made of the basket, the grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired to the servants-hall, where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work awaited their arrivalsupper being already on the table.
Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphicnot to say exaggeratedaccount of the small fire in the study, and wound up with an eloquent appeal to all to beware of fire, and an assurance that there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater horror of.
Meanwhile the little spark among the papersforgotten in the excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper basketcontinued to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the cloth between two bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton pen-wiper, which received it rather greedily in its embrace. This pen-wiper lay in contact with some old letters which were dry and tindery in their nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap, afforded enlarged accommodation, for the spark, which in about half an hour became quite worthy of being termed a swell.
After that things went on likelike a house on fireif we may venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.
Chapter Two
Another Little Spark.
Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs little and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquityhaving begun no doubt with Adamor its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that warble in the flowering thorn.
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw the readers attention at present, is that which was exemplified one November night (the same November night of which mention has been made in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through the streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Pauls by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cooks window.
Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes full on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing owl. Being poorso poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the realmhe stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with inexpressible energy.
The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crowa sable melody high in public favour at that timethe familiar strains of which he delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral, and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from the crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards on the dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghost in the dark wintry sky.
The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat that night chanced to be St. Pauls Churchyard. That sedate guardian of the night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare, sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the chorus where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun him round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at the same time advising him to move on.
Oh! exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, I hope I didnt hurt you, bobby; I really didnt mean to; but accidents will happen, you know, an if you wont keep your knuckles out of a fellers way, why
Come, muttered the policeman, shut up your potato-trap for fear you catch cold. Your mother wants you; shes got some pap ready for you.
Ha! exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, as though he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curious animal, a prophet it isa blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, all but choked with a leather stockif not conceit. A horacle, six fut two in its stockins. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you up much too high, both in body and notions. Wot wouldnt they give for im in the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight inches wider across the shoulders!
Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on without condescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him an affectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention him favourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through the crowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of his shrill pipe.
The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs, spirits, nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed to increase with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger of his gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which he indulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes of boys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, uttering Indian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they could echo, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions. Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mind from the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as these were exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.
Jolly stuff that, aint it? observed another small boy, in a coat much too long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shop at the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetually grinding up such quantities of rich brown chocolate, that it seemed quite unreasonable, selfish, and dog-in-the-manger-ish of the young man behind the counter to stand there, and neither eat it himself, nor let anyone else touch it.
Yes, its very jolly stuff, replied the first small boy, regarding his questioner sternly. I know youd like some, wouldnt you? Go in now an buy two penorth, and Ill buy the half from you wen you come out.
Walker! replied the boy in the long coat.
Just so; and Id advise you to become a walker too, retorted the other; run away now, your masters bin askin after you for half an hour, I know, and more.
Without waiting for a reply, the small boy (our small boy) swaggered away whistling louder than ever.
Passing along Holborn, he continued his way into Oxford Street, where the print-shop windows proved irresistibly attractive. They seemed also to have the effect of stimulating his intellectual and conceptive faculties, insomuch that he struck out several new, and, to himself, highly entertaining pieces of pleasantry, one of which consisted of asking a taciturn cabman, in the meekest of voices:
Please, sir, you couldnt tell me wots oclock, could you?
The cabman observed a twinkle in the boys eye; saw through him; in a metaphorical sense, and treated him with silent contempt.
Oh, I beg pardon, sir, continued the small boy, in the same meek tone, as he turned to move humbly away; I forgot to remember that cabbies dont carry no watches, no, nor change neither, theyre much too wide awake for that!
A sudden motion of the taciturn cabman caused the small boy to dart suddenly to the other side of the crowded street, where he resumed his easy independent air, and his interrupted tune.
Can you direct me to Nottin Hill Gate, missus? he inquired of an applewoman, on reaching the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.
Straight on as you go, boy, answered the woman, who was busying herself about her stall.
Very good indeed, said the small boy, with a patronising air; quite correctly answered. Youve learnt geography, I see.
What say? inquired the woman, who was apparently a little deaf.
I was askin the price o your oranges, missus.
One penny apiece, said the woman, taking up one.
They aint biled to make em puff out, are they?
To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.
Come, missus, dont be cross; wots the price o yer apples now?
Dyou want one? asked the woman testily.
Of course I does.
Well, then, theyre two a penny.
Two a penny! cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; why, Id a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin, missus; I never buys cheap fruitcheap and nastyno, no; good evenin.
It seemed as if the current of the small boys thoughts had been diverted by this conversation, for he walked for some time with his eyes cast on the ground, and without whistling, but whatever the feelings were that might have been working in his mind, they were speedily put to flight by a facetious butcher, who pulled his hat over his eyes as he passed him.
Now then, pig-sticker, what dye mean by that? he shouted, but as the butcher walked on without deigning to reply, he let off his indignation by yelling in at the open door of a tobacco-shop and making off at a brisk run.
From this point in his progress, he became still more hilarious and daring in his freaks, and turned aside once or twice into narrow streets, where sounds of shouting or of music promised him fresh excitement.
On turning the corner of one of those streets, he passed a wide doorway, by the side of which was a knob with the word FIRE in conspicuous letters above it, and the word BELL below it. The small boy paused, caught his breath as if a sudden thought had struck him, and glanced round. The street was comparatively quiet; his heart beat high; he seized the bell with both hands, pulled it full out, and bolted!
Now it chanced that one of the firemen of the station happened to be standing close to the door, inside, at the time. He, guessing the meaning of the ring at once, darted out and gave chase.
The small boy fled on the wings of terror, with his blue eyes starting from their sockets. The fireman was tall and heavy, but he was also strong and in his prime, so that a short run brought him up with the fugitive, whom he seized with a grip of iron.
Now, then, young bottle-imp, what did you mean by that?
Oh! please, sir, gasped the small boy, with a beseeching look, I couldnt help it.
There was such a tone of truthfulness in this couldnt that it tickled the fireman. His mouth relaxed in a quiet smile, and, releasing his intended victim, he returned to the station, while the small boy darted away in the direction of Oxford Street.
He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a man turned the corner at full speed and ran him downran him down so completely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and, passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began to pull violently.
The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, with stockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter to toe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed by the heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road. Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunates into whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards, his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration running down his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would have recognised Hopkinsthe staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkinshad they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.
And, without doubt, Hopkins was a maniac that nightat least he was afflicted with temporary insanity!
Chapter Three
Fire!!!
Hallo, thatll do, man! cried the same stalwart fireman who had seized the small boy, stepping out and laying his hand on Hopkinss shoulder, whereabouts is it?
Hopkins heard him not. One idea had burnt itself into the poor mans brain, and that was the duty that lay on him to ring the alarm-bell! Seeing this, the fireman seized him, and dragged him forciblyalmost lifted himinto the station, round the door of which an eager crowd had already begun to collect.
Calm yourself, said the stalwart fireman quietly, as he thrust Hopkins down into a chair. Consider now. Youll make us too late if you dont speak. Where is it?
BBFire! yelled Hopkins, gasping, and glaring round him on the men, who were quietly putting on their helmets.
Hopkins suddenly burst from the grasp of his captor, and, rushing out, seized the bell-handle, which he began to pull more furiously than ever.
Get her out, Jim, said the fireman in a low tone to one of his comrades (her being the engine); at the same time he went to the door, and again seizing Hopkins, brought him back and forced him into a chair, while he said firmly:
Now, then, out with it, man; wheres the fire?
Yes, yes, screamed Hopkins, fire! fire thats it! B! BBeverly!blazes!square!numberFire!
Thatll do, said the fireman, at once releasing the temporary maniac, and going to a book where he calmly made an entry of the name of the square, the hour of the night, and the nature of the call. Two lines sufficed. Then he rose, put on his helmet, and thrust a small hatchet into his belt, just as the engine was dragged to the door of the station.