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

“My dear Miss Tippet, I shall never, no never, get over it.”

So said, and so undoubtedly thought, a thin little old lady with remarkably bright eyes, and a sweet old face, as she sat sipping tea at Miss Tippet’s elbow.

It was in the drawing-room of Miss Deemas that she sat, and the Eagle sat opposite to her.

“It was very dreadful,” responded Miss Tippet with a sigh—“very.”

“It was awful. I know I shall never get over it,—never,” repeated the little old lady, finishing her tea, and asking for another cup in the calmest possible voice, with the sweetest possible smile.

“Oh yes, you will, Mrs Denman,” said Miss Deemas snappishly.

“No, indeed, I won’t,” repeated Mrs Denman; “how can I? Just think of the situation. Sitting in my chair in dishabille, when a man—a Man, Miss Dee—”

“Well, I know what a man is,” said the Eagle bitterly; “why don’t you go on?”

“Burst himself through my bedroom-door,” continued Mrs Denman, “with lime and charcoal and brick-dust and water streaming down his face—f–fo-olded me in his arms, bore me out into the street—the street! Oh! I shall never, never get over it; and so little, so very little clothing on me—”

“How much had you on?” asked Miss Deemas in a deep voice, the calmness of which contrasted forcibly with Mrs Denman’s excited tones.

“Really, Miss Deemas, I see no necessity for going into particulars. It is sufficient to know that I was carried by a man into the street in the face of some thousands of people, for I heard them cheering though I saw them not. I know I shall never get over it—another cup, my love; not quite so much sugar—no, not if I were to live to the age of Methusaleh.”

“I don’t wonder, indeed I don’t,” murmured the sympathetic Miss Tippet. “I think, Julia dear, you are a little too hard on Mrs Denman. How would you like to have been carried out of a burning house in such a way by a big rough man?”

“Oh, my dear,” interposed Mrs Denman, “I did not say he was rough. Big he certainly was, and strong, but I must do him the justice to say that the man li—lif—oh me! lifted me up very tenderly, and carried me as though I had been an infant and he my mother, through smoke and fire and water, into the street, before the eyes of the—whole—oh, it’s too awful to think of!”

“Stuff!” ejaculated Miss Deemas, pecking a piece of cake out of her fingers as she would, metaphorically of course, have pecked the eyes out of the head of Frank Willders, or any other man. “Didn’t you say he put a blanket round you?”

“Of course, Miss Deemas; I should have died otherwise of pure shame.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” retorted the Eagle. “You would probably have been half suffocated and a good deal dirtied, and you might have been singed, but you wouldn’t have died; and what need you care now, for the people saw nothing but a bundle. You might have been a bundle of old clothes for all they knew or cared. All they wanted to see was the bravery, as they call it, of the man; as if there were not hundreds upon hundreds of women who would do the same thing if their muscles were strong enough, and occasion served.”

“But it was a brave act, you know,” said Miss Tippet timidly.

“I don’t know that,” retorted Miss Deemas, helping herself to more cake with as much decision of manner as if she had been carrying it off by force of arms from before the very muzzles of a masculine battery. “I don’t know that. He had to escape, you know, for his own life, and he might as well bring a bundle along with him as not.”

“Yes; but then,” said Miss Tippet, “he first went up the—the thingumy, you know.”

“No, he didn’t,” retorted Miss Deemas smartly; “he was in the house at the time, and only came down the ‘thingumy,’ as you call it!”

It was a peculiarity of Miss Deemas’s character, that she claimed the right to be as rude as she chose to people in her own house, and rather prided herself on this evidence of independence.

“In my opinion,” said Mrs Denman, “his being in the burning house at all of his own accord, was of itself evidence of courage. I think the fireman is a brave young man.”

Thus much Mrs Denman said with dignity to Miss Deemas. The remainder of her speech she addressed to Miss Tippet.

“But, my dear, I feel that although I owe this young man a debt of gratitude which I can never repay, I shall never be able to look my preserver in the face. I know that his mind will always revert, when he sees me, to the fi—fig—the figure that he lifted out of that easy-chair. But there is one thing I have resolved on,” continued the little old lady in more cheerful tones, as she asked for another cup of tea, “and that is, to get a fireman to instruct me as to the best method of saving my own life should fire again break out in my dwelling.”

The Eagle gave a hysterical chuckle at this.

“I have already written to one who has been recommended to me as a shrewd man, and he is coming to call on me this very evening at seven o’clock.”

Mrs Denman started, as if her own remark had recalled something, and pulled out her watch.

“Why, it is almost half-past six!” she exclaimed, rising hastily. “Excuse a hurried departure, Miss Deemas. Your society and sympathy” (she looked pointedly at Miss Tippet here) “have been so agreeable that I did not observe how time was flying. Good-bye, Miss Deemas. Good evening, dear Miss Tippet.”

Miss Deemas bowed.

“Good-bye, my love,” said Miss Tippet, bustling round her friend. “I’m so glad to have met you, and I hope you’ll come and see me soon; 6 Poor-thing Lane, remember. Come whenever you please, dear Mrs Denman. Yes, yes, time does indeed fly, as you say; or as my friend, Sir Archibald What’s-his-name used to remark, ‘Tempit fugus something re-what’s-’is-name.’ Good-bye, dear Mrs Denman.”

While the ladies were thus engaged, one whom the Eagle would have tossed her beak at with supreme contempt was enjoying himself in the bosom of his family. This was none other than Joe Corney himself, who, having received a “stop” for a distant fire, had looked in on his wife to tell her of the note he had received from Mrs Denman.

The family bosom resided in a small portion of a small house in the small street where the fire-engine dwelt.

Joe had laid his helmet on the table, and, having flung himself into a chair, seized his youngest child, a little girl, in his arms, raised her high above his head and laughed in her face; at which the child chuckled and crowed to the best of its ability.

Meanwhile his eldest son, Joe junior, immediately donned the helmet, seized the poker, thrust the