Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“An’ twenty minutes allowed for refreshments,” suggested Willie.
“Why, as to that,” said Mr Tippet, “if we stop at all, there could be no reasonable objection to refreshments, although it is probable we might find it difficult to get anyone sufficiently enterprising to undertake the supply of such a line; for, you know, if the lever were to slip at the fulcrum and fall—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Willie, “wouldn’t there be a smash; neither!”
“The danger of people falling off, too,” continued Mr Tippet, “might be prevented by railings run along the extreme edges of the lever.”
“Yes,” interrupted Willie, whose vivid imagination, unused to such excitement, had taken the bit in its teeth and run away with him; “an’ spikes put on ’em to keep the little boys from swinging on ’em, an’ gettin’ into mischief. Oh! what jolly fun it would be. Only think! we’d advertise cheap excursion trains along the Arkimeedis Line, Mondays an’ Toosdays. Fares, two hundred pounds, fust class. No seconds or parleys allowed for love or money. Starts from the Fuddlecrum Sta—”
“Fulcrum,” said Mr Tippet, correcting.
“Fulcrum Station,” resumed Willie, “at 2:30 a.m. of the mornin’ precisely. Stops at the Quarter, Half-way, an’ Three-quarter Stations, allowin’ twenty minutes, more or less, for grub—weather permittin’.”
“Your observations are quaint,” said Mr Tippet, with a smile; “but there is a great deal of truth in them. No doubt, the connection of such ideas, especially as put by you, sounds a little ludicrous; but when we come to analyse them, we see their possibility, for, if a lever of the size indicated by the ancient philosopher were erected (and theoretically, the thing is possible), then the subordinate arrangements as to a line of railway and stations, etcetera, would be mere matters of detail. It might be advertised, too, that the balance of the lever would be so regulated, that, on the arrival of the train at the terminus, the world would rise (a fact which might be seen by the excursionists, by the aid of enormous telescopes, much better than by the people at home), and that, on the return of the train, the world would again sink to its ancient level.
“There would be considerable risk, no doubt,” continued Mr Tippet meditatively, “of foolish young men and boys getting over the rails in sport or bravado, and falling off into the depths of illimitable profundity, but—”
“We could have bobbies stationed along the line,” interrupted Willie, “an’ tickets put up warnin’ the passengers not to give ’em money on no account wotsomedever, on pain o’ bein’ charged double fare for the first offence, an’ pitched over the rails into illimidibble pro-what’s-’is-name for the second.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, William,” said Mr Tippet suddenly, getting off the bench and seizing the boy’s hand, “your talents would be wasted in my office. You’ll come and assist me here in the workshop. I’m greatly in want of an intelligent lad who can use his hands; but, by the way, can you use your hands? Here, cut this piece of wood smooth, with that knife.”
He handed Willie a piece of cross-grained wood and a blunt knife.
Willie looked at both, smiled, and shook his head.
“It would take a cleverer feller than me to do it; but I’ll try.”
Willie did try; after a quarter of an hour spent in vain attempts, he threw down the wood and knife exclaiming, “It’s impossible.”
Mr Tippet, who had been smiling cherubically, and nodding approval, said:
“I knew it was impossible, my lad, when I gave it to you, and I now know that you are both neat-handed and persevering; so, if you choose, I’ll engage you on the spot to come on trial for a week. After that we will settle the remuneration. Meanwhile, shake hands again, and allow me to express to you my appreciation of the noble character of your brother, who, I understand from my sister’s letter, saved a young relative of mine from the midst of imminent danger. Good-night, William, and come to me on Monday next, at nine o’clock in the morning.”
Willie was somewhat perplexed at this prompt dismissal (for Mr Tippet had opened the door), especially after such a long and free-and-easy conversation, and he felt that, however much license Mr Tippet might permit, he was a man of stern will, who could not be resisted with impunity; so, although he was burning to know the object and nature of innumerable strange pieces of mechanism in the workshop, he felt constrained to make a polite bow and depart.
On his way downstairs, he heard the voices of men as if in angry disputation; and on reaching the next floor, found Mr Barret standing at the open door of his room, endeavouring to hold Ned Hooper, who was struggling violently.
“I tell you,” said the latter, in a drunken voice, “that I w–will go out!”
“Come, Ned, not to-night; you can go to-morrow” said Barret soothingly, yet maintaining his hold of his friend.
“W–why not? ain’t night the best time to—to—be jolly?—eh! L–me go, I shay.”
He made a fierce struggle at this point; and Barret, ceasing to expostulate, seized him with a grasp that he could not resist, and dragged him forcibly, yet without unnecessary violence, into the room.
Next instant the door was shut with a bang and locked; so Willie Willders descended to the street, and turned his face homewards, moralising as he went on the evils of drink.
It was a long way to Notting Hill; but it was not long enough to enable Willie to regain his wonted nonchalance. He had seen and heard too much that night to permit of his equilibrium being restored. He pursed his mouth several times into the form of a round O, and began “Rule Britannia”; but the sounds invariably died at the part where the “charter of the land” is brought forward. He tried “The Bay of Biscay, O!” with no better success, never being able to get farther than “lightning’s vivid powers,” before his mind was up in the clouds, or in Mr Tippet’s garret, or out on the Archimedes-Lever Railway.
Thus wandering in dreams he reached home, talked wildly to his anxious mother, and went to bed in a state of partial insanity.
One night, not long after the events narrated in the last chapter, Frank Willders was standing with the fireman-in-charge in the King Street Station. He had just removed his helmet, and the perspiration on his brow showed that he had been but recently engaged in some active duty; as indeed was the case, for he had just returned from a “walk” to a fire in Whitechapel.
“It was only a small affair,” said Frank, hanging up his helmet and axe, and sitting down to fill his pipe; “a low beer-shop in Brook Street; the taproom burnt out, and the rest of the house damaged by smoke. It was pretty well over before I got there, and I left half an hour after. Where are the rest o’ the lads?”
“They’re out wi’ both engines,” said Baxmore, who was busy making a memorandum on a slate.
“With both engines!” said Frank.
“Ay, both,” replied Baxmore, with a laugh, as he sat down in front of the fire. “Let me see; it’s now nine o’clock, so they’ve bin off an hour; one to Walton Street, Brompton; the other to Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. The call was the queerest I’ve seen for many a day. We was all sittin’ here smokin’ our pipes, as usual, when two fellers came to the door, full split, from opposite pints o’ the compass, an’ run slap into each other. They looked like gentlemen; but they was in such a state it wasn’t easy to make out what sort o’ fish they was. One had his coat torn and his hat gone; the other had his tile pretty well knocked down on his eyes—I s’pose by the people he run into on the way—an’ both were half-mad with excitement. They both stuttered, too—that was the fun o’ the thing, and they seemed to think each was takin’ off the other, and got into a most awful rage. My own opinion is, that one stuttered by nature, an’ the other stuttered from fright. Anyhow, they both stuttered together, and a precious mess they made of it.
“‘F–F–F–Fire!’ roared one.
“‘F–F–F–Fire!’ yelled the other.
“‘Where away?’ asked Mr Dale, looking quietly at the two men, who were gasping for breath.
“‘B–B–B–Brompton,’ ‘B–B–B–Bayswater!’ they shouted together; and then, turnin’ fiercely on each other, the one said ‘N–N–N–No!’ and the other said ‘N–N–N–No!’ ‘Now, which is it?’ said Dale, ‘an’ be quick—do.’
“‘B–B–B–Brompton!’
“‘B–B–B–Bayswater!’ in a breath; then says one, ‘I—I s–s–say Brompton!’ an’ the other, he says, ‘I—I s–s–say Bayswater!’
“At this they grew furious, and Dale tried to calm them and settle the question by asking the name of the street.
“‘W–W–Walton S–Street!’ cried one.
“‘P–P–P–Porchester T–T–Terrace!’ shouted the other.
“‘N–N–No!’ ‘Y–Y–Yes!’ ‘N–No!’ an’ with that, one up fist an’ hit the other a crack between the eyes. T’other returned on the nob, and then they closed.
“Before this Mr Dale had ordered out one o’ the engines, an’ when he heard the two streets named it occurred to him that there might be two fires, so he ordered out the other engine; and before we got the stutterers separated both engines were off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater; but whether there are two fires or no is yet to be seen.”
Just as Baxmore concluded, the rattle of a returning engine was heard. Next moment it dashed up to the door, and the firemen, leaping off, streamed into the station, where; amid much comment and some laughter at the scene they had so recently witnessed, they hung up their helmets and crowded round the fire.
“So it was in Brompton, after all,” said Jack Williams, stirring the coals; “but it was a small affair in a baker’s shop, and we soon got it out.”
“Is the other engine back?” inquired Moxey.
“Here she comes to answer for herself,” said Mason, as the second engine dashed up to the station, and the men were joined by their comrades.
“We’ve got it out,” said Dale, sitting down before the desk to enter the particulars in his diary; “it was a private house, and well alight when we got there, but the Paddington engine was playing on it, and we soon got it under.”
“Faix, it’s well them stutterers didn’t kape us longer, else the whole house would have bin burnt out intirely,” observed Joe Corney, binding up a slight wound in his thumb, which he had received from a splinter.
Most of the men were more or less begrimed with charcoal and smoke, and otherwise bore marks of their recent sharp though short skirmish, but none of them deemed it necessary to remove these evidences of devotion to duty until they had refreshed themselves with a pipe.
“Were there people in the house?” inquired Frank.
“Ay, but Pickford was there with the escape, an’ got ’em all out before we came up,” said one.
“Pickford said he couldn’t help laughing after he got ’em out, at the remembrance o’ their faces. When he first went in they was all sound asleep in the top floor, for the smoke was only beginnin’ to show there, an’ the surprise they got when he jump in among ’em an’ shouted was wonderful to behold.”
“Not so wonderful,” observed Bill Moxey, “as the surprise I seed a whole man-o’-war’s crew get by consequence o’ the shout o’ one of her own men.”
“When was that? Let’s hear about it, Bill,” said Corney, stuffing down the tobacco in his pipe, and firing a battery of cloudlets into the air.
“We was in the Red Sea at the time,” said Moxey, clearing his throat, “layin’ at anchor, and a precious hot time we had of it. There was
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