Fighting the Flames

Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his part well. In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and his laughter was sardonic. Even when commenting on the prosperity of trade his sighs were frequent and deep. One of his friends thought and said that prosperity was turning the poor man’s brain. Others thought that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor’s parrot, which “could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker,” gave no outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they feared there was a screw loose somewhere.

This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad world of loose screws.

Chapter Twenty
A little more Hatching

One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse in Tooley Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning hiss, and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to boom. He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the last shot was fired.

“It’s a jolly time of day this—the jolliest hour of the twenty-four,” muttered Ned to himself, with a smile.

His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic, by reason of his having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day.

By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following words:

“Com—mi—boy—y–you’ll go—ave an—urrer por-o-porer—thash yer sort!”

At a certain point in the drunkard’s downward career he ceases to have any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag gallop that generally terminates abruptly in the grave.

Ned Hooper, a kind-hearted fellow enough, and thinking himself not so bad as he seemed because of that same kind-heartedness, had reached the galloping point, and was travelling unusually fast along the high road to ruin.

Being of a generous nature, Ned was in the habit of extending his patronage to various beer-shops, among others to that one near London Bridge which has been described as the property of Gorman. Business, pleasure, or fancy led him to that shop on the evening in question. He was standing at the counter steadying himself with his left hand and holding a pewter-pot in his right, when the door of the inner room opened, and Gorman crossed the floor. He was in a thoughtful mood, and was about to pass out without raising his eyes, when Ned arrested him with:

“Good ev-n’in’, Misher Gorm’n.”

Gorman glanced back, and then turned away as if in contempt, but, suddenly checking himself, returned, and going up to Hooper with as affable a smile as his countenance would admit of, said that he was delighted to shake hands with him, and that he was the very man he wanted to see, as he wished to have a word of conversation with him.

“Conv’shas’n wi’ me?” said Ned, swaying himself to and fro as he endeavoured to look steadily in the face of his friend; “fire away, shen. I’m sh’ man f’r conv’shash’n, grave or gay, comic—’r—shublime, ’s all the shame to me!”

He finished the pot, and laid it, with an immense assumption of care, on the counter.

“Come out, we’ll walk as we talk,” said Gorman.

“Ha! to b’shure; ’at’s poetical—very good, very good, we’ll wa–alk as we talk—ha! ha! very good. Didn’t know you wash a poet—eh? don’t look like ’un.”

“Come along, then,” said Gorman, taking him by the arm.

“Shtop!” said Ned, drawing himself up with an air of drivelling dignity, and thrusting his hand into his trouser-pocket.

“What for?” asked the other.

“I haven’t p–paid for my b–beer.”

“Never mind the beer. I’ll stand that,” said Gorman, dragging his friend away.

Ned consented to be dragged, and said something to the effect that he hoped to have the pleasure of standing treat on some future occasion.

“Now, then,” said Gorman, somewhat firmly, though not sternly, for he knew that Ned Hooper was not to be browbeat; “are you sober enough to attend to what I’ve got to say?”

“Shober as a dudge,” answered Ned.

Gorman looked earnestly in his face for a few moments, and then began to talk to him in a continuous strain by way of testing him.

“C’found these cabs an’ b–busseses; a feller c–can’t hear a word,” said Ned.

“Your lodgin’s an’t far off, are they?”

“Close ’t ’and,” answered Ned.

“Let’s go to ’em,” said Gorman.

In silence Ned Hooper led the way, and, conducting his friend into his “chamber,” as he styled his poor abode, begged him to be seated, and threw himself into an armchair beside the little fire. There was a pipe on the chimney-piece, which Ned began to fill, while Gorman opened the conversation.

“You’re hard up, rather, just now?” said the latter.

“’Xactly so, that’s my c’ndition to a tee.”

Ned smiled as he said this, as though it were the most satisfactory state of things possible, and lighted his pipe.

“Of course you’ve no objection to make a fifty pound note or so?” asked Gorman.

“None in sh’ wo’ld; always,” he became very earnest here, “always sh’posin’ that I make it honestly.”

“Of course, of course,” rejoined the other; “I would never propose anything that would lead you into a scrape. You don’t suppose I would do that, I hope?”

“Shertenly not,” replied Ned with a smile; “fire away.”

“Well, then, I’m anxious just now to procure a dead corpse.”

Ned Hooper, drunk as he was, felt somewhat startled by this, but, being a man of wandering and lively imagination, turned from the point in question to an idea suggested by it.

“I sh’pose a living corpse wouldn’t do, would it? It must be a dead one—eh?”

“Be serious if you can,” said Gorman angrily. “I want a corpse.”

Ned Hooper, who, like many good-humoured men, was easily roused when in a state of intoxication, fired at the tone of Gorman’s voice, and looked at him as sternly as he could, while he replied:

“What have I got to do with yer wants an’ yer co’pses—eh? You don’t sh’pose I keep a stock of ’em on hand ready-made, do you—eh?” Then relapsing into a placid frame, he smiled, and added, “But fire away, ol’ feller, I’m yer man for conv’sashin, specially w’en it’s in the comic line.”

“That’s right,” said Gorman, clapping Ned on the shoulder and endeavouring to conciliate him; “now, then, the question is, how am I to get ’un?”

“Ah, thash the question, if Shakspr’s to be b’lieved.”

“Well, but couldn’t you think?” said Gorman.

“Think!” exclaimed the other, “what am I paid a salary for? What are my brains doin’ night an day—eh? Of course I can think; thash’s my pr’feshion, is thinking.”

Gorman cast a scornful look at his friend, but he deemed it prudent to admit the truth of what he said, and suggested that he might perhaps remember a certain medical student with whom he had once held pleasant converse in his (Gorman’s) house of entertainment.

“R’member him, of course,” hiccuped Ned.

“Well, then, he could get us a corpse, you know—couldn’t he?”

Ned looked uncommonly knowing at this point, and admitted that he rather thought he could—a dozen of them, if necessary.

“Well, I want one, and I’ll pay well for it if it’s of the right sort. It must be at least six-foot two, thin about the jaws, with lanky black hair, and a yellow complexion.”

Ned smiled facetiously, but at the same time shook his head.

“Six f’t two,” said he, “an’t a common height; it won’t be easy to get ’un so tall; but—but,” he pondered here with a grave expression of countenance, “but it might be stretched a bit, you know—eh? As to thin jaws, most of ’em is thin about sh’ jaws, an’ black hair ain’t un—uncommon.”

Ned yawned at this point, and looked very sleepy.

“Well, you’ll speak to him, won’t you, and I’ll make it worth while for both of you?”

“Oh yesh, I’ll shpeak to him,” said Ned, as his head fell on the table and his senses utterly forsook him.

“Bah! you beast,” muttered Gorman, casting a glance of scorn on his friend as he rose to leave. He had the sense, before going, to extinguish the candle, lest Ned should overturn it and set the house on fire; not that he cared either for Ned or the house, but as the former happened to be necessary to him just then, he did not wish him to be burned too soon. Then he went out, closing the door softly after him.

Half an hour afterwards Ned’s friend and fellow-lodger, John Barret, entered the room, accompanied by Fred Auberly.

“Come, Fred,” said the former, “we can chat here without interr— hallo—”

“What’s wrong?” inquired Fred, endeavouring to make out objects by the feeble flicker of the fire, while his friend struck a light.

Barret did not reply, but the light soon revealed Ned’s disreputable figure half sprawling on and half clinging to the table.

“Surely this is not your chum, John?” asked Fred in surprise.

“Yes, that’s him,” answered Barret in a low sad voice. “Help me to get him into bed, like a good fellow.”

Without a word the young men raised the drunken figure in their arms, and laid it like some loathsome object on one of the beds in the adjoining room.

“How can you stay with him?” asked Auberly, after they had returned to the other room and seated themselves at the fire.

“He is an old schoolfellow of mine,” said Barret in a low voice. “I’m sorry you’ve seen him in this state. He was a very different fellow once, I assure you; and if it were not for that accursed drink he would be as pleasant a companion as exists. You know I have no friends in London save yourself, Fred, and this young fellow.—I came to stay with him at first, not knowing his character, and now I remain to try to—to—save him; but I fear his case is hopeless. Come, Fred, we won’t talk of it. You were saying, as we came along, that your father is sterner than ever, were you not?”

“Ay,” said Fred, with a sigh, “he won’t even let me call to see my sister too—that’s the worst of it. For the rest I care not; my brush has sustained me hitherto, and my love for my profession increases every hour. I feel towards it, John, as a man may be supposed to feel towards the sweet, young girl whom wicked guardians had for a long time refused to let him wed. Nothing but death shall separate us now!”

Barret smiled, and was about to make some rejoinder, but he checked himself and changed the subject.

“How is your sister?” said he, “I have not heard of her for a long time.”

“Not well,” answered Fred; “the doctors shake their heads and speak of the shock having been too much for her. Dear Loo, she never was strong, and I’m afraid that she has received fatal injury on the night of the fire. I’m told that my poor father is sadly cut up about her—attends on her night and day, and humours her every whim. This is so unlike him that it fills me with anxiety on account of dear Loo, whom I have not seen since I went to live at Kensington.”

“Kensington, Fred? I did not know you had gone to live there.”

“I was just going to mention that when we came in. I have got a very comfortable lodging with—who do you think? you’ll never guess—Mrs Willders, the mother of our young friend Willie who works with old Tom Tippet upstairs. You may well look surprised. I came upon the lodging quite accidentally, and, finding that it suited my inclinations and my purse, I took it at once for a few weeks. It’s in a very poor locality, no doubt, but you know a man must cut his coat according to his cloth, and my cloth is not broad at present. But then,” continued Fred, with sudden animation, “it’s a splendid place for a painter! There are such picturesque regions and bits near it. Why, Kensington Gardens are sufficient to make the fortune of a landscape-painter—at least in the way of trees; then an hour’s walk takes you to rural scenery, or canal scenery, with barges, bridges, boats, old stores, cottages, etcetera. Oh! it’s a magnificent spot, and I’m hard at work on a picturesque old pump near Shepherd’s Bush Common, with a bit of old brick wall behind it, half-covered with ivy, and a gipsy-like beggar-girl drinking at it out of her hand; that—that’ll make an impression, I think, on the Royal Academy, if—if they take it in.”

“Ah! if they take it in,” said John Barret, smiling.

“Well,” retorted Fred Auberly, “I know that is a point of uncertainty, and I’m not very sanguine, because there is great lack of room. Nevertheless, I mean to send it. And you know, John, ‘faint heart never won fair lady,’ so—”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a shrill whistle at the top of the house, which, as it drew nearer, became identified with the air of “Rule Britannia!”

“That’s Willie Willders,” said Barret, laughing.

“I guessed as much, and with your leave I’ll call him in. He knows of my having become an inmate of his mother’s house, and as he is probably going home I would like to send a message to his mother. Hallo, Willie.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the youth, in the tones of a thoroughbred seaman. Not that Willie had ever been at sea, but he was so fond of seamen, and had mingled with them so much at the docks, as well as those of them who had become firemen, that he tried to imitate their gait and tones.

“Come here, you scamp, and stop your noise.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Willie, with a grin, as he entered the room, cap in hand.

“Going home, lad?” asked Fred.

“Yes, sir—at least in a permiscuous sort of way entertainin’ myself as I goes with agreeable talk, and improvin’ obsarvation of the shop winders, etceterrer.”

“Will you take a message to your mother?”

“Sure-ly,” answered Willie.

“Well, say to her that I have several calls to make to-night and may be late in getting home, but she need not sit up for me as I have the door-key; tell her not to forget to leave the door on the latch.”

“Wery good, sir,” said Willie. “May I make so bold as to ask how Miss Loo was when you seed her last?”

“Not well, I regret to say,” replied Fred.

“Indeed! I’m surprised to hear that, for she’s agoin’ out to tea to-morrow night, sir.”

“My surprise is greater than yours, lad; how d’you know that, and where is she going to?” asked Auberly.

Here Willie explained in a very elaborate manner that a note had arrived that forenoon from Miss Tippet, inviting Mr Tippet to tea the following evening, and expressing a hope that he would bring with him his clerk, “Mister” Willders, the brother of the brave fireman who had saved Loo’s life, and that Miss Louisa Auberly was to be there, and that Mr Tippet had written a note accepting the same.

“Then you’ll have to take another message from me, Willie. Tell Miss Tippet when you go to-morrow that I will give myself the pleasure of looking in on her in the course of the evening,” said Fred. “Mr Auberly is not to be there, is he?”

“No, not as I knows of.”

“Well, good-night, Willie.”

Willie took his departure, marching to the usual national air, and soon after Fred Auberly bade his friend good-night and left him.

Chapter Twenty One
A Small Tea-Party

Miss Tippet’s tea-party began by the arrival of Willie Willders, who, being fond of society, and regardless of fashion, understood his hostess literally when she named her tea-hour! For full half an hour, therefore, he had the field to himself, and improved the occasion by entertaining Miss Tippet and Emma Ward with an account of the wonderful inventions that emanated from the fertile brain of Mr Thomas Tippet.

Strange to say, a deep and lasting friendship had sprung up between the eccentric old gentleman and his volatile assistant. Willie sympathised so fully with his master in his wild schemes, and displayed withal such an aptitude for mechanical contrivance, and such a ready appreciation of complex theories, that Mr Tippet soon came to forget his extreme youth, and to converse with him, propound schemes and new ideas to him, and even to ask his advice; with as much seriousness as though he had been a full-grown man.

This was of course very gratifying to Willie, who repaid his master’s condescension and kindness by devoting himself heart and soul to the duties of what he styled his “profession.” He was a good deal put out when his brother Frank asked him one day what his “profession” was, and resolving never again to be placed in such an awkward position of ignorance, asked his employer what was the name of his business, to which the employer replied that it had no particular name; but, on being urged by his assistant to give it a name, he suggested that he might, if so disposed, style himself a poly-artist, which, he explained, meant an artist of many occupations. Willie felt that this might be translated “jack-of-all-trades,” but on mature consideration he resolved to adopt it, in the belief that few people would understand what it meant, and that thereby he would be invested with a halo of mystery, which was, upon the whole, a gratifying reflection.

Gradually, however, Willie was led to diverge from his employer to his brother Frank, in regard to whom Miss Tippet entertained the strongest feelings of admiration, because of his courageous conduct in saving Louisa Auberly. Willie pursued this theme all the more willingly that Emma appeared to be deeply interested in it.

Emma Ward was very romantic in her nature; yet she had a keen appreciation of the ludicrous,—which caused her to appear somewhat light-headed and giddy in the eyes of superficial observers; but she possessed an underlying earnestness of soul, which displayed itself in a thousand ways to those who had much intercourse with her. She was an ardent hero-worshipper; and while Miss Tippet was her heroine, Frank Willders was, at that time, her beau idéal of a hero, although she only knew him from description.

Willie was still in the middle of a glowing account of a fire, in which Frank and his friends Dale and Baxmore were the chief actors; and Emma was listening with heightened colour, parted lips, and sparkling eyes, when Matty Merryon opened the door and announced Mr Tippet.

That gentleman was still in the act of shaking his sister’s hands with both of his, and kissing her on both cheeks heartily, when Matty announced Miss Deemas.

Matty, being Irish, allowed her soul to gush out too obviously in her tones; so that her feelings towards the Eagle, though unexpressed, were discernible.

Miss Deemas strode up to Miss Tippet, and pecked her on the right cheek, much as an eagle might peck a tender rabbit, which it could slay and devour if it chose, but which it preferred to spare for a time. She was immediately introduced to Mr Tippet, whom she favoured with a stiff bow, intended to express armed neutrality in the meantime; with a possibility, if not a probability, of war in the future. The eccentric gentleman felt chilled, but ventured to express an opinion in regard to the weather, glancing for confirmation of the same towards the window, through which he naturally enough expected to see the sky; but was baffled by only seeing the green venetian blinds, which ruled off the opposite houses in narrow stripes. Before he had recovered himself to make any further observation, Miss Deemas had attempted, in a condescending way, to peck the cheek of Emma Ward; but that young lady, feeling disinclined, so managed that she received the peck on her forehead.

On Willie, Miss Deemas bestowed a glance of utter indifference, which Willie replied to with a gaze of desperate defiance.

Then Miss Deemas seated herself on the sofa, and asked her “dear friend” how she did, and how she felt, and whether things in general were much as usual; from which elevated region of generalities she gradually descended into the more particular sphere of gossip and scandal.

It is only just to Miss Tippet to say that the Eagle did not find her a congenial bird of prey in this region. On the contrary, she had to drag her unwilling friend down into it; and as Miss Tippet was too conscientious and kind-hearted to agree with her in her sweeping censures and caustic observations and wilful misconstructions, it is difficult to conceive wherein she (the Eagle) found pleasure in her society. Probably it was because she found in her one who would submit meekly to any amount of contradiction, and listen patiently to any amount of vituperative declamation.

“So it seems Mr Auberly has disinherited and dismissed his son, my dear,” said Miss Deemas, smoothing her dress with both hands, as though she were about to lay Mr Auberly in her lap, and analyse him.

“I’m sorry to say that it is too true, Julia,” answered Miss Tippet, with a sigh.

“Ha! it’s so like one of these creatures,” said Miss Deemas, pursing her thin lips; “so domineering, so towering, in their pride of mere physical power.”

Mr Tippet glanced at the Eagle in surprise, not being able to understand to what sort of “creatures” she made reference.

“Poor Frederick,” sighed Miss Tippet, “I don’t know what he’ll do (ring the bell, Emma, darling); he’s such a bold, high-spirited young man, and it’s all owing to his determination to take to—to what’s-’is-name as a profession (bring the tea, Matty). It’s very sad.”

“That must be a new sort of profession,” observed Miss Deemas pointedly.

“Oh! I mean painting, you know. It’s impossible to arrange one’s things in such very correct language, you know, dear Julia; you are really too—oh! did you hear of Joe Corney, and what’s-his— fireman’s visit to Mrs Denman? To be sure you did; I forgot it was in your house. It was such a funny account; you heard of it, brother (ring the bell again, dear), didn’t you?”

Mr Tippet, whose wonted vivacity was quite subdued by the freezing influence of the Eagle, said that he had not heard of it; whereupon Miss Tippet said that she had heard of it, and so had Willie Willders, who had heard of it from his brother Frank, who had heard of it from Joe Corney himself; and then she attempted to relate the matter, but failed, and finally asked Willie to tell the story, which Willie did with much gusto; looking at Miss Deemas all the time, and speaking in a very positive tone, as if he thought she was doubting every word he said, and was resolved to hurl it in her teeth, whether she chose to believe it or not.

“Capital!” exclaimed Mr Tippet, laughing heartily, when Willie had concluded; “what an energetic old lady she must be! Really, I must get introduced to her, and show her the self-acting fire-extinguisher I have just invented. You remember it, Willie?” Willie nodded. “I’ve laid it aside for some time; but it is very nearly complete now. A little more work on it will finish it. My only difficulty in regard to it is, madam,” he addressed himself to Miss Deemas here, “that it is apt to burst, and I am uncertain whether or not to add a safety-valve to prevent such a catastrophe, or to make the metal so very strong, that nothing short of gunpowder would burst it; but then, you see, that would make the whole affair too heavy. However, these are only minor difficulties of detail, which a little thought will overcome.”

Miss Deemas received all this with a sinister smile, and replied with the single word, “Oh!” after which she turned immediately to Miss Tippet, and remarked that the weather had been unusually warm of late for the season of the year, which remark so exasperated Willie Willders that he turned with a face of crimson to Emma, and asked her if she didn’t feel a draught of cold air coming over her from somewhere, and whether she would not sit nearer the fire, and farther away from the window!

Willie meant this for an uncommonly severe cut; for Miss Deemas sat at the end of the sofa, near the window!

Fortunately, at this point, Matty Merryon ushered in Loo Auberly, who was instantly enfolded in Miss Tippet’s arms, and thence transferred to Emma’s, in which she was led to the sofa, and gently deposited in the softest corner.

“Darling Loo!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, with tears in her eyes; “you look so thin and pale.”

There could be no doubt on that point. Little Loo, as Emma styled her, was worn to a shadow by sickness, which had hitherto baffled the doctor’s skill. But she was a beautiful shadow; such a sweet, gentle shadow, that one might feel thankful, rather than otherwise, to be haunted by it.

“Pray don’t mind me; I’m too tired to speak to you yet; just go on talking. I like to listen,” said Loo softly.

With ready kindness, Miss Tippet at once sought to draw attention from the child, by reverting to Mrs Denman; and Matty created a little opportune confusion by stumbling into the room with the tea.

Matty usually tripped over the carpet at the door, and never seemed to become wiser from experience.

“Poor Mrs Denman,” said Miss Tippet, pouring out the tea; “it must have been an awful shock; think of a (Sugar, brother? I always forget), what was I—oh, yes; think of a fireman seizing one round the (Cream, Willie? I know you have a sweet tooth, so I don’t need to ask if you take sugar)—yes, he carried her down that dreadful what-d’ye-call-it, and into the next house with nothing (A little more sugar, Julia? No? )—nothing on but her what’s-’is-name. Oh! it was sad; sad to lose all her fine things, too—her furniture, and—and thingumies. Do try a piece of cake, brother.”

“I know a worse case than hers,” said Willie, with a knowing look.

“Do you?” exclaimed Miss Tippet.

“Oh! do tell it,” cried Emma earnestly; “he’s just been telling it to me, and it is so sad and interesting.”

“Come, let’s hear about it, lad,” said Mr Tippet.

Thus encouraged, Willie related his adventure with the clown’s family, and told his tale with such genuine feeling, that Miss Tippet, Loo, and Emma found their eyes moist when he had concluded.

There was a good deal of comment upon this subject, and Miss Deemas animadverted very strongly upon actors in general and clowns in particular. As to ballet-girls, she could not find words to express her contempt for them; but in reference to this Miss Tippet ventured to rebuke her friend, and to say that although she could not and would not defend the position of these unfortunates, yet she felt that they were very much to be pitied, seeing that they were in many cases trained to their peculiarly indelicate life by their parents, and had been taught to regard ballet-dancing as quite a proper and legitimate what’s-its-name. No doubt this was only a palliation of the life they led, but she thought that if anyone was to be severely blamed in the matter it was the people who went to witness and encourage such wicked displays.

Miss Deemas dissented generally from all her friend’s observations, and, wishing to change the subject, asked Loo if her father was coming to fetch her home.

“No,” said Loo; “dear papa is not well to-night, but he is to send the carriage for me. Oh, I wish,” she continued, reverting to the previous subject, “I wish I could do something for these poor people. I’m so very, very sorry for the fairy.”

“So you can, if you choose,” said Miss Deemas sharply.

“No, indeed I cannot,” replied Loo in an earnest voice; “I’m too ill and weak now to be of any use to anyone. Once I was useful to dear papa, but ever since the fire I have not been of use to anybody; only a hindrance to them. Since I have been ill I have thought much more about what I read in the Bible, and I’ve had a great desire to do good in some way or other, but how can I—so weak and helpless?”

Loo almost sobbed, for her sympathies had been awakened by Willie, and a chord had been touched which had been vibrating in her breast for some weeks past.

“Your father is rich, is he not?” asked the Eagle.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Well, a word to him may be the cause of much good, in the shape of money at least, to people in distress; but rich people don’t always like to spend their money in that way.”

Loo hung down her head and made no reply, for she knew that her father did not like to part with money. She had often heard him refuse to do so in days gone by, even when very pathetic appeals (as she thought) were made to him; and experience told her that it was in vain to look for help in that quarter.

The party was now increased by the arrival of Frederick Auberly, who at once infused life into everybody, except Miss Deemas, who had life enough of her own, and would by no means accept the loan of any from anyone else. Fred therefore ignored her altogether, and told stories and cracked jokes and sang songs as if no such female iceberg were present.

Poor Loo was overjoyed to see him, and laying her head on his breast, bade him speak away and not ask questions; only speak, and allow her to listen and rest.

Fred obeyed, and at once began an earnest discussion with Willie as to the best method of getting a stout gentleman out of a third-floor window in case of fire, when Matty Merryon entered with a flushed face and said that a fireman who would not give his name wished to see Willie Willders for a minute; and she was inclined to think it was his brother.

“What! Frank?” exclaimed Willie, rising to go downstairs.

“Stay, Willie,” cried Miss Tippet eagerly; “don’t go down. Pray let me have him up; I should so like to see him, and I’m sure so would Loo; the man, you know, who went up the what’s-its-name, and brought you—yes, send him up, Matty.”

“Plaze, mim, he won’t come,” replied the girl, “I know’d ye would like to see him, an’ axed him in.”

“Tell him,” said Miss Tippet, “that I request it as a favour.”

While Matty was delivering this message, the Eagle took occasion to sniff once or twice in a contemptuous manner, and wondered why people worshipped men just because they happened to be big, and what they called handsome. For her part, she hated all men, but if she were to be obliged to choose between any class (which she was thankful to say was not necessary in her case), she would certainly give the preference to ugly men and small.