Life in the Red Brigade | Page 2

being looked after, and that he and his comrades were to stop where
they were and pay no attention to it, even although some one should
rush into the office like a maniac shouting that there was a fire in that
particular place. This use of the telegraph in thus stopping the men of
the Brigade from going out in force to trifling fires, is of the greatest
service, because it not only prevents them from being harassed, the
engines from being horsed, and steam got up needlessly, but it prevents

rascals from running from station to station, and getting several
shillings, instead of the one shilling which is due to the first intimator
of any fire.
Having acknowledged the message, Bob Clazie lay down once more,
gave another expostulatory grunt, and drew his blanket over him; while
Joe Dashwood went home.
Joe's home consisted of a small apartment round the corner of the street,
within a few seconds' run of the station. Off the small apartment there
was a large closet. The small apartment was Dashwood's drawing-room,
dining-room, and kitchen; the large closet was his bed-room.
Dashwood had a wife, "as tight a little craft, with as pretty a
figurehead," he was wont to say, "as you could find in a day's walk
through London." That was saying a good deal, but there was some
truth in it. When Joe entered, intending to go to bed for the night, he
found that Mary had just got up for the day. It was "washing-day," or
something of that sort, with Mary, which accounted for her getting up
at about three in the morning.
"Hallo, lass, up already!" exclaimed the strapping fireman as he entered
the room, which was a perfect marvel of tidiness, despite washing-day.
"Yes, Joe, there's plenty to do, an' little May don't give me much time
to do it," replied Mary, glancing at a crib where little May, their
first-born, lay coiled up in sheets like a rosebud in snow.
Joe, having rubbed the water and charcoal from his face with a huge
jack-towel, went to the wash-tub, and imprinted a hearty kiss on Mary's
rosy lips, which she considerately held up for the purpose of being
saluted. He was about to do the same to the rosebud, when Mary
stopped him with an energetic "Don't!"
"W'y not, Molly?" asked the obedient man.
"'Cause you'll wake her up."

Thus put down, Joe seated himself humbly on a sea-chest, and began to
pull off his wet boots.
"It's bin a bad fire, I think," said Mary, glancing at her husband.
"Rather. A beer-shop in Whitechapel. House of five rooms burnt out,
and the roof off."
"You look tired, Joe," said Mary.
"I am a bit tired, but an hour's rest will put me all to rights. That's the
third fire I've bin called to to-night; not that I think much about that, but
the last one has bin a stiff one, an' I got a fall or two that nigh shook the
wind out o' me."
"Have something to eat, Joe," said Mary, in a sympathetic tone.
"No thankee, lass; I need sleep more than meat just now."
"A glass of beer, then," urged Mary, sweeping the soap suds off her
pretty arms and hands, and taking up a towel.
The fireman shook his head, as he divested himself of his coat and
neckcloth.
"Do, Joe," entreated Mary; "I'm sure it will do you good, and no one
could say that you broke through your principles, considerin' the
condition you're in."
Foolish Mary! she was young and inexperienced, and knew not the
danger of tempting her husband to drink. She only knew that hundreds
of first-rate, sober, good, trustworthy men took a glass of beer now and
then without any evil result following, and did not think that her Joe ran
the slightest risk in doing the same. But Joe knew his danger. His father
had died a drunkard. He had listened to earnest men while they told of
the bitter curse that drinking had been to thousands, that to some extent
the tendency to drink was hereditary, and that, however safe some
natures might be while moderately indulging, there were other natures

to which moderate drinking was equivalent to getting on those rails
which, running down a slight incline at first--almost a level-- gradually
pass over a steep descent, where brakes become powerless, and end at
last in total destruction.
"I don't require beer, Molly," said Dashwood with a smile, as he retired
into the large closet; "at my time o' life a man must be a miserable,
half-alive sort o' critter, if he can't git along without Dutch courage. The
sight o' your face and May's there, is better than a stiff glass o' grog to
me any day.