The Thorogood Family | Page 6

bed, and at every roll the hawser and the lifebuoy dipped into the sea, or were jerked violently out of it, while the risk of being let drop on the black rocks that came grinning to the surface was very great.
But all went well. The three were received on the rocks with cheers, and conveyed up the cliffs to the Coastguard-house above, where warm welcome and shelter awaited them. The cheers were not heard by those in the wreck, but the re-appearance of the lifebuoy proved that the children had been saved, and a deep "Thanks be to God!" burst from their father's lips.
Still the captain refused to go, when urged. "No," he said, "let the men go first."
So, one by one, the men were safely hauled on shore.
"Now, captain, it's your turn at last," said our hero, approaching him.
He still hesitated. Then the stout Coastguardsman absolutely lifted him into the lifebuoy.
"No time for ceremony," he said, with a smile, giving the signal with his lantern, "the brig's going fast. Tell 'em to look sharp on shore, for I'm gettin' used up with all this work."
Away went the captain, and in a few minutes back came the lifebuoy. Not a moment too soon. Blackbeard sprang in as the mizzen-mast snapped with a report like a cannon, and went over the side. The next wave broke up the wreck itself. Before the lifebuoy had gained the shore it was plunged into the sea, out of which it no longer rose, the support of the wreck being gone. The men on shore now hauled on the rope with desperate energy, for a few minutes more would be sure to settle the question of life or death. Through the surging breakers and over the rugged rocks the lifebuoy was dragged, and a shout of relief arose when the gallant Coastguardsman was seen clinging to it. But he was insensible, and it was with difficulty that they loosened the grip of his powerful hands.
Then they bore him up the cliffs and laid him in his own bed, and looked anxiously upon his deadly white face as they covered him with blankets, applied hot bottles to his feet, and chafed his cold, stiff limbs.
At last there came a fluttering sigh, and the eyelids gently opened.
"Where am I?" he asked faintly.
A young man having the appearance of a clergyman, laid his hand gently on his shoulder.
"All right, Tom!" he said; "through the goodness of the Lord you're saved, and fourteen souls along with you."
"Thank God!" said Tom Thorogood fervently, and, as he said so, the tide of life once more coursed strongly through his veins, and brought back the colour to his manly face.
CHAPTER FOUR.
The great city was sound asleep. It was the deadest hour of the night, if we may apply that term to three o'clock in the morning, the hour at which most people have sought and found their pillows. Late revellers had ceased to shout and sing, early risers had yet a good hour of rest before them, if not more. Of course there were many wakeful sick folk-- ah! how many in that mighty hive called London! But these did not disturb the profound quiet that had descended on the city: only a few weak but steady lights in windows here and there told of their existence.
Among the sleepless, on that calm dark night, there was one man to whom we draw attention. His bronzed cheeks and tall muscular frame told that he was not one of the wakeful sick, neither was he a sick-nurse, to judge from things around him. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, gazing into the fire and meditating--perhaps building castles in the flames. His eyebrows were very bushy and his looks stern, but there was a play of gentle, kindly feeling round his mouth. He was one of a gallant band of picked men whose duty it is to do battle with the flames, a member of the London Fire-brigade. Two other men like himself lay on two little iron beds sound asleep with their clothes on. There was this difference between them, however, that the wakeful man wore brass epaulettes on his shoulders. Brass helmets and axes hung round the room. A row of boots hung in a rack, a little telegraph instrument stood on a table near a map of London, and a small but sociable clock ticked on the wall.
That clock had quite a lively, cheerful tick. It seemed to talk to the fireman with the bushy brows until he smiled and looked at it.
"Tic--tic--tic!" said the man, "how low and gentle your voice seems to-night. Everything is so still and quiet, that you appear to be only whispering the flight of time."
"Tic--tic--tic," replied the clock.
But the fireman