Fighting the Flames | Page 6

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 couldn't tell me wot's o'clock, could you?"
The cabman observed a twinkle in the boy's 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 don't carry no watches, no, nor change neither, they're 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. You've 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 ain't biled to make 'em puff out, are they?"
To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.
"Come, missus, don't be cross; wot's the price o' yer apples now?"
"D'you want one?" asked the woman testily.
"Of course I does."
"Well, then, they're two a penny."
"Two a penny!" cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; "why, I'd 'a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin', missus; I never buys cheap fruit--cheap and nasty--no, no; good evenin'."
It seemed as if the current of the small boy's 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 d'ye 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 couldn't help it."
There was 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