Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖

“Mother,” said Master William Willders one night to his parent, as he sat at supper—which meal consisted of bread and milk; “he’s the jolliest old feller, that Mr Tippet, I ever came across.”

“I’m glad you like him, Willie,” said Mrs Willders, who was busy patching the knees of a pair of small unmentionables; “but I wish, dear, that you would not use slang in your speech, and remember that fellow is not spelt with an e-r at the end of it.”

“Come now, mother, don’t you go an’ get sarcastic. It don’t suit you; besides, there’s no occasion for it,—for I do my best to keep it down, but I’m so choke full of it that a word or two will spurt up now and then in spite o’ me.”

Mrs Willders smiled and continued her patching; Willie grinned and continued his supper.

“Mother,” said Willie, after an interval of silence.

“Well, my son?”

“What d’ye think the old feller—ah! I mean fellow—is up to just now?”

“I don’t know, Willie.”

“He’s inventin’ a calc’latin’ machine, as is to do anythin’ from simple addition to fractions, an’ he says if it works well he’ll carry it on to algebra an’ mathematics, up to the fizmal calc’lus, or somethin’ o’ that sort. Oh, you’ve no notion how he strains himself at it. He sits down in his shirt-sleeves at a writin’-table he’s got in a corner, an’ tears away at the little hair he has on the sides of his head (I do believe he tore it all off the top with them inventions), then he bangs up an’ seizes his tools, and shouts, ‘Look here, Willie, hold on!’ an’ goes sawin’ and chisellin’ and hammerin’ away like a steam-engine. He’s all but bu’st himself over that calc’latin’ machine, and I’m much afraid that he’ll clap Chips into the sausage-machine some day, just to see how it works. I hope he won’t, for Chips an’ I are great friends, though we’ve only bin a month together.”

“I hope he’s a good man,” said Mrs Willders thoughtfully.

“Well, I’m sure he must be!” cried Willie with enthusiasm, “for he is very kind to me, and also to many poor folk that come about him regularly. I’m gettin’ to know their faces now, and when to expect ’em. He always takes ’em into his back room—all sorts, old men and old women an’ children, most of ’em seedy enough, but some of ’em well off to look at. What he says to ’em I don’t know, but they usually come out very grave, an go away thankin’ him, and sayin’ they won’t forget his advice. If the advice is to come back soon they certainly don’t forget it! And he’s a great philosopher, too, mother, for he often talks to me about my int’lec’s. He said jist t’other day, ‘Willie,’ said he, ‘get into a habit o’ usin’ yer brains, my boy. The Almighty put us into this world well-made machines, intended to be used in all our parts. Now, you’ll find thousands of people who use their muscles and neglect their brains, and thousands of others who use their brains and neglect their muscles. Both are wrong, boy; we’re machines, lad—wonderful machines—and the machines won’t work well if they’re not used all over.’ Don’t that sound grand, mother?”

Willie might have received an answer if he had waited for one, but he was too impatient, and went rattling on.

“And who d’ye think, mother, came to see old Tippet the other day, but little Cattley, the clown’s boy. You remember my tellin’ you about little Cattley and the auction, don’t you?”

“Yes, Willie.”

“Well, he came, and just as he was goin’ away I ran out an’ asked him how the fairy was. ‘She’s very ill,’ he said, shakin’ his head, and lookin’ so mournful that I had not the heart to ask more. But I’m goin’ to see them, mother.”

“That’s right, my boy,” said Mrs Willders, with a pleased look; “I like to hear you talk of going to see people in distress. ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor,’ Willie.”

“Oh, as to that, you know, I don’t know that they are poor. Only I feel sort o’ sorry for ’em, somehow, and I’m awful anxious to see a real live fairy, even though she is ill.”

“When are you going?” inquired Mrs Willders.

“To-morrow night, on my way home.”

“Did you look in at Frank’s lodging in passing to-night?”

“Yes, I did, and found that he was in the station on duty again. It wasn’t a bad sprain, you see, an’ it’ll teach him not to go jumpin’ out of a first-floor window again.”

“He couldn’t help it,” said the widow. “You know his escape by the stair had been cut off, and there was no other way left.”

“No other way!” cried Willie; “why didn’t he drop? He’s so proud of his strength, is Blazes, that he jumped off-hand a’ purpose to show it! Ha! he’d be the better of some o’ my caution. Now, mother, I’m off to bed.”

“Get the Bible, then,” said Mrs Willders.

Willie got up and fetched a large old family Bible from a shelf, and laid it on the table before his mother, who read a chapter and prayed with her son; after which Willie gave her one of his “roystering” kisses and went to bed.

The lamps had been lighted for some time next night, and the shop-windows were pouring forth their bright rays, making the streets appear as light as day, when Willie found himself in the small disreputable street near London Bridge in which Cattley the clown dwelt.

Remembering the directions given to him by little Jim Cattley, he soon found the underground abode near the burnt house, the ruins of which had already been cleared away and a considerable portion of a new tenement erected.

If the stair leading to the clown’s dwelling was dark, the passage at the foot of it was darker; and as Willie groped his way carefully along, he might have imagined it to be a place inhabited only by rats or cats, had not gleams of light, and the sound of voices from sundry closed doors, betokened the presence of human beings. Of the compound smells peculiar to the place, those of beer and tobacco predominated.

At the farther end of this passage, there was an abrupt turn to the left, which brought the boy unexpectedly to a partially open door, where a scene so strange met his eyes that he involuntarily stood still and gazed.

In a corner of the room, which was almost destitute of furniture, a little girl, wan, weary, and thin, lay on a miserable pallet, with scanty covering over her. Beside her stood Cattley—not, as when first introduced, in a seedy coat and hat; but in full stage costume—with three balls on his head, white face, triangular roses on his cheeks, and his mouth extended outward and upward at the corners, by means of red paint. Little Jim sat on the bed beside his sister, clad in pink skin-tights, with cheeks and face similar to his father, and a red crest or comb of worsted on his head.

“Ziza, darling, are you feeling better, my lamb?” said the elder clown, with a gravity of expression in his real mouth that contrasted strangely with the expression conveyed by the painted corners.

“No, father, not much; but perhaps I’m gettin’ better, though I don’t feel it,” said the sweet, faint voice of the child, as she opened her large hollow eyes, and looked upward.

“So, that’s the fairy!” thought Willie sadly, as he gazed on the child’s beautiful though wasted features.

“We’ll have done d’rectly, darling,” said the clown tenderly; “only one more turn, and then we’ll leave you to rest quietly for some hours. Now, then, here we are again!” he added, bounding into the middle of the room with a wild laugh. “Come along, Jim, try that jump once more.”

Jim did not speak; but pressing his lips to his sister’s brow, leaped after his sire, who was standing an a remarkably vigorous attitude, with his legs wide apart and his arms akimbo, looking back over his shoulder.

“Here we go,” cried Jim in a tiny voice, running up his father’s leg and side, stepping lightly on his shoulder, and planting one foot on his head.

“Jump down,” said the clown gravely.

Jim obeyed.

“That won’t do, Jim. You must do it all in one run; no pausing on the way—but, whoop! up you go, and both feet on my head at once. Don’t be afeard; you can’t tumble, you know.”

“I’m not afeard, father,” said Jim; “but I ain’t quite springy in my heart to-night. Stand again and see if I don’t do it right off.”

Cattley the elder threw himself into the required attitude; and Cattley junior, rushed at him, ran up him as a cat runs up a tree, and in a moment was standing on his father’s head with his arms extended. Whoop!—next moment he was turning round in the air; and whoop! in another moment he was standing on the ground, bowing respectfully to a supposed audience.

To Jim’s immense amazement, the supposed audience applauded him heartily; and said, “Bravyo! young ’un,” as it stepped into the room, in the person of William Willders.

“Why! who may you be?” inquired the clown senior, stepping up to the intruder.

Before Willie could answer the clown junior sprang on his father’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Whatever he said, the result was an expression of benignity and condescension on the clown’s face—as far as paint would allow of such expression.

“Glad to meet you, Master Willders,” he said. “Proud to know anyone connected with T. Tippet, Esquire, who’s a trump. Give us your flipper. What may be the object of your unexpected, though welcome visit to this this subterraneous grotto, which may be said to be next door to the coral caves, where the mermaids dwell.”

“Yes, and there’s one o’ the mermaids singing,” remarked the clown junior, with a comical leer, as a woman’s voice was heard in violent altercation with some one. “She’s a sayin’ of her prayers now; beseechin’ of her husband to let her have her own way.”

Willie explained that, having had the pleasure of meeting with Jim at an auction sale some weeks ago, he had called to renew his acquaintance; and Jim said he remembered the incident—and that, if he was not mistaken, a desire to see a live fairy in plain clo’se, with her wings off, had something to do with his visit.

“Here she is;—by the way, what’s your name?”

“Bill Willders.”

“Here she is, Bill;