Part 39 (1/2)

”_Will_ you hold your tongue!” cried the Eagle, looking up suddenly and drying her eyes.

”Surely, miss,” said Matty, with a toss of her head; ”anything to plaize ye.”

It is due to Matty to say that, while the policeman was descending the ladder with her mistress, she had faithfully remained to comfort and encourage Emma; and after Emma was rescued she had quietly descended the ladder without a.s.sistance, having previously found time to clothe herself in something a little more ample and appropriate than a bolster.

But where was David Boone all this time? Rather say, where was he not?

Everywhere by turns, and nowhere long, was David to be seen, in the frenzy of his excitement. Conscience-smitten, for what he had done, or rather intended to do, he ran wildly about, making the most desperate efforts to extinguish the fire.

No one knows what he can do till he is tried. That is a proverb (at least if it is not it ought to be) which embraces much deep truth. The way in which David Boone set personal danger at defiance, and seemed to regard suffocation by smoke or roasting by fire as terminations of life worth courting, was astounding, and rendered his friends and neighbours dumb with amazement.

David was now on the staircase among the firemen, fighting his way up through fire and smoke, for the purpose of saving Miss Tippet, until he was hauled forcibly back by Dale or Baxmore--who were in the thick of it as usual. Anon, down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, knee-deep in water, searching for the bodies of his two shopmen, both of whom were standing comfortably outside, looking on. Presently he was on the leads of the adjoining house, directing, commanding, exhorting, entreating, the firemen there to point their branch at the ”blue bedroom.” Soon after he was in the street, tearing his hair, shouting that it was all his fault; that he did it, and that it would kill him.

Before the fire was put out, poor Boone's eyelashes and whiskers were singed off; little hair was left on his head, and that little was short and frizzled. His clothes, of course, were completely soaked; in addition to which, they were torn almost to shreds, and some of his skin was in the same condition. At last he had to be forcibly taken in charge, and kept shut up in an adjoining house, from the window of which he watched the destruction of his property and his hopes.

Almost superhuman efforts had been made by the firemen to save the house. Many a house in London had they saved that year, partially or wholly; as, indeed, is the case every year, and many thousands of pounds' worth of property had they rescued; but this case utterly defied them. So well had the plot been laid; so thoroughly had the combustibles been distributed and lubricated with inflammable liquids, that all the engines in the metropolis would have failed to extinguish that fire.

David Boone knew this, and he groaned in spirit. The firemen knew it not, and they worked like heroes.

There was a shout at last among the firemen to ”look out!” It was feared one of the part.i.tion walls was coming down, so each man beat a hasty retreat. They swarmed out at the door like bees, and were all safe when the wall fell--all safe, but one, Joe Corney, who, being a reckless man, took things too leisurely, and was knocked down by the falling bricks.

Moxey and Williams ran back, and carried him out of danger. Then, seeing that he did not recover consciousness, although he breathed, they carried him at once to the hospital. The flames of the burning house sprang up, just then, as if they leaped in triumph over a fallen foe; but the polished surface of poor Joe's helmet seemed to flash back defiance at the flames as they bore him away.

After the part.i.tion wall fell, the fire sank, and in the course of a few hours it was extinguished altogether. But nothing whatever was saved, and the firemen had only the satisfaction of knowing that they had done their best, and had preserved the adjoining houses, which would certainly have gone, but for their untiring energy.

By this time, David Boone, besides being mad, was in a raging fever.

The tenant of the house to which he had been taken was a friend, as well as a neighbour of his own--a greengrocer, named Mrs Craw, and she turned out to be a good Samaritan, for she insisted on keeping Boone in her house, and nursing him; a.s.serting stoutly, and with a very red face (she almost always a.s.serted things stoutly, and with a red face), that Mister Boone was one of 'er best an' holdest friends, as she wouldn't see 'im go to a hospital on charity--which she despised, so she did--as long as there was a spare bed in her 'ouse, so there was--which it wasn't as long as could be wished, considerin' Mister Boone's height; but that could be put right by knocking out the foot-board, and two cheers, so it could--and as long she had one copper to rub on another; no, though she was to be flayed alive for her hospitality. By which round statement, Mrs Craw was understood to imply a severe rebuke to Mrs Grab--another greengrocer over the way (and a widow)--who had been heard to say, during the progress of the fire, that it served Boone right, and that she wouldn't give him a helping hand in his distress on any account whatever.

Why Mrs Grab was so bitter and Mrs Craw so humane is a matter of uncertainty; but it was generally believed that the former having had a matrimonial eye on Boone, and that Boone having expressed general objections to matrimony--besides having gone of late to Mrs Craw for his vegetables--had something to do with it.

Next day, D. Gorman happened, quite in a casual way of course, to saunter into Poorthing Lane; and it was positively interesting to note-- as many people did note--the surprise and consternation with which he received the news of the fire from the people at the end of the lane who first met him, and who knew him well.

”Wery sad, ain't it, sir?” said a sympathetic barber. ”He was sitch a droll dog too. He'll be quite a loss to the neighbourhood; won't he, sir?”

”I hope he won't,” said Gorman, loud enough to be heard by several persons who lounged about their doors. ”I hope to see him start afresh, an' git on better than ever, poor fellow; at least, I'll do all _I_ can to help him.”

”Ah! you've helped him already, sir, more than once, I believe; at least so he told me,” said the barber, with an approving nod.

”Well, so I have,” returned Gorman modestly, ”but he may be a.s.sured that any trifle he owes me won't be called for just now. In fact, my small loan to him is an old debt, which I might have got any time these last six years, when he was flouris.h.i.+ng; so I'm not going to press him now, poor fellow. He's ill, you say?”

”Yes, so I'm told; raither serious too.”

”That's very sad; where is he?”

”With Mrs Craw, sir, the greengrocer.”

”Ah, I'll go and see him. Good-day.”

Gorman pa.s.sed on, with as much benignity thrown into his countenance as it could contain; and the barber observed, as he re-entered his shop, that, ”that man was a better fellow than he looked.”