Fighting the Flames | Page 7

such a tone of truthfulness in this "couldn't" 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 down--ran 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 Hopkins--the staid, softspoken, polite,
and gentle Hopkins-- had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac
at the fire-bell.
And, without doubt, Hopkins was a maniac that night--at least he was
afflicted with temporary insanity!
CHAPTER THREE.
FIRE!!!
"Hallo, that'll do, man!" cried the same stalwart fireman who had seized
the small boy, stepping out and laying his hand on Hopkins's shoulder,
whereabouts is it?
Hopkins heard him not. One idea had burnt itself into the poor man's
brain, and that was the duty that lay on him to ring the alarm-bell!
Seeing this, the fireman seized him, and dragged him forcibly--almost
lifted him--into 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. You'll make us too late if you don't
speak. Where is it?"

"B-B-Fire!" 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; where's the fire?"
"Yes, yes," screamed Hopkins, "fire! fire that's it! B-! B-Beverly!--
blazes!--square!--number--Fire!"
"That'll 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.
There was something absolutely magnificent in this scene which no pen
can describe, because more than half its force was conveyed only by
the eye and the ear. The strong contrast between human excitement and
madness coupled with imbecility, and human calmness and
self-possession coupled with vigorous promptitude, was perfect.
Just before poor Hopkins rang his first note of alarm the station had
been wrapt in profound silence--the small boy's interruption having
been but a momentary affair. George Dale, the fireman in charge, was
seated at a desk in the watch-room (known among firemen as the
"lobby"), making an entry in a diary. All the other men--about thirteen
in number--had gone to their respective homes and beds in the
immediate neighbourhood, with the exception of the two whose turn it
was to remain on duty all night. These two (named Baxmore and
Corney), with their coats, belts, boots, and caps on, had just lain down
on two low tressel couches, and were courting sleep. The helmets of

their comrades hung on the walls round the room, with belts and
hatchets underneath them. Several pairs of boots also graced the walls,
and a small clock, whose gentle tick was the only sound that broke the
silence of the night. In an outer room the dim form of a spare engine
could be seen through the doorway.
The instant that the bell rang, however, this state of quietude was put to
flight. The two men rose from their couches, and Dale stepped to the
door. There was no starting up, no haste in their movements, yet there
was prompt rapidity. The men, having been sailors, had been trained in
the midst of alarms. The questions which were