The Four White Days | Page 8

forward impulsively. Mistaking his intention, the man with
the hosepipe turned on the cock vigorously. A howl of rage followed.
But the dramatic touch was absent, not one spot of water came. A
sudden yell of laughter arose in time to save the life of the amateur
fireman.
"The water is frozen in the mains," a voice cried.
It was even as the voice said. In a flash everything became
commonplace again. Fisher was very grave as he walked away.
"This is a calamity in itself," he said. "The water frozen in the mains!
By this time to-morrow there won't be a single drop available."

VII
Inside the House a hot debate was in progress on the following day.
Martial law for London had been suggested. It was a chance for the
handful of cranks and faddists not to be neglected. It was an
interference with the liberty of the subject and all the rest of it. The
debate was still on at ten o'clock when Fisher came back languidly to
the Press gallery. At eleven one of the champion bores was still
speaking. Suddenly an electric thrill ran through the House.
The dreary orator paused--perhaps he was getting a little tired of
himself. Something dramatic had happened. There was the curious
tense atmosphere that causes a tightening of the chest and a gripping of
the throat before actual knowledge comes. Heedless of all decorum, a
member stood behind the Speaker's chair, and called aloud:
"The Hotel Cecil is on fire!" he yelled. "The place is well a-blaze!"
Fisher darted from the gallery into the yard. Even the prosy
Demosthenes collapsed in the midst of his oration, and hurried out of
the House. There was no occasion to tell anybody what the magnitude
of the disaster meant. Everybody knew that in the face of such a
disaster the fire brigade would be useless.
In the Strand and along the approaches thereto, along the Embankment
and upon the bridges, a dense mass of humanity had gathered. They
were muffled in all sorts of strange and grotesque garments, but they
did not seem to heed the piercing cold.
In the Strand it was as light as day. A huge column of red and white
flame shot far into the sky, the steady roar of the blaze was like surf on
a stony beach. There was a constant crackle like musketry fire.
The magnificent hotel, one of the boldest and most prominent features
of the Strand and the Thames Embankment, was absolutely doomed.
Now and then the great showers of falling sparks would flutter and
catch some adjacent woodwork but all the roofs around were covered

with firemen who beat out the flames at once. Tons of snow were
conveyed up the fire escapes and by means of hastily rigged up pullies,
so that gradually the adjacent buildings became moist and cool. But for
this merciful presence of the snow, the south side of the Strand from
Wellington Street to Charing Cross might have passed into history.
As it was now, unless something utterly unforeseen occurred, the great
calamity had been averted. There was still much for the firemen to do.
"Let's get back to the office," Fisher said, with chattering teeth. "I
would sell my kingdom for a little hot brandy. I hope the next blizzard
we get we shall be more prepared for. I suppose that out in the States
they would make nothing of this. And we haven't got a single snow
plough worthy of the name this side of Edinburgh."
"We are ready for nothing," Gough grumbled. "If there had been a wind
to-night, nothing could have saved the Strand. The disaster may occur
again; indeed, there is certain to be a fire, half-a-dozen fires, before
daybreak. Given a good stiff breeze and where would London be? It
makes one giddy to think of it."
Gough said nothing. It was too cold even to think. Gradually the two of
them thawed out before the office fire. A languid sub came in with a
pile of flimsies. Quite as languidly Gough turned them over. His eyes
gleamed.
"My word," he gasped. "I hope this is true. They've had two days'
deluge in New York. We are to keep our eyes open for strong Westerly
gales with a deep depression--"
For the next two hours Fisher bent over his desk. The room seemed
warmer. Perhaps it was the brandy. He took off his sheepskin and then
his overcoat below. Presently a little bead of moisture grew on his
forehead. He drew a little further from the fire. He felt stifling and faint,
a desire for air came over him.
A little doubtful of his own condition he almost shamefacedly opened
the window. The air was cold and fresh and revived him, but it