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
The attack had now become general. The firemen swarmed in at the doors and windows the moment that it was possible for a human being to breathe the smoke and live. One of the engines attached two additional lengths of hose, dragged the branch through the first floor to the back of the house, got upon an outhouse, in at a back window, and attacked the foe in rear. On the roof, Frank and Dale were plying their hatchets, their tall figures sharply defined against the wintry sky, and looking more gigantic than usual. The enemy saved them the trouble of cutting through, however, for it suddenly burst upwards, and part of the roof fell in. It would certainly have taken Frank prisoner had not Dale caught him by the collar, and dragged him out of danger. Instantly a branch was pointed downwards, and the foe was beaten back; from above, below, before, and behind, it was now met with deluges of water, which fell on the shoulders of the men in the lower floor in a continuous hot shower, while they stood ankle-deep in hot water.
In ten minutes after this the fire was effectually subdued, the lower floor having been saved, although its contents were severely damaged by water.
It was only necessary now, that one of the engines should remain for a time, to make good the victory. The others rolled up their hose, and prepared to depart. The King Street engine was the first to quit the field of battle. While the men were getting ready, Mr Auberly, muffled in a long cloak, stepped from the crowd and touched Frank, the tall fireman, on the shoulder.
“Sir,” said he in a low voice, “you saved my child. I would show my sense of gratitude. Will you accept of this purse?”
Frank shook his head and a smile played on his smoke-begrimed countenance as he said:
“No, Mr Auberly. I am obliged to you, but I cannot accept of it. I do not want it, and besides, the men of the brigade are not allowed to take money.”
“But you will let me do something for you?” urged Mr Auberly. “Is there nothing that I can do?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Frank. He paused for a moment, and then resumed—“Well, there is something that perhaps you could do, sir. I have a little brother out of employment; if you could get him a situation, sir.”
“I will,” said Mr Auberly with emotion. “Send him to me on Thursday forenoon. He will find me living next door to my—to my late home. I shall stay with a friend there for some time. Good-night.”
“Men of King Street engine get up,” cried Dale. “Stay—what is your name?” said Mr Auberly turning round.
But Frank was gone. He had leaped to his place on the engine and was off at a rattling pace through the now silent and deserted streets of the sleeping city.
Although they drove on at great speed there was no shouting now, for neither ’bus, cab, nor foot-passenger blocked up the way, and the men, begrimed with smoke and charcoal, wet, and weary with two hours of almost uninterrupted labour of a severe as well as dangerous character, sat or stood in their places in perfect silence.
On reaching the fire-station they leaped to the ground, and all went quickly and silently to their neighbouring homes and beds, except the two men on duty. These, changing their coats and boots, lay down on the trestles, and at once fell fast asleep—the engine and horses having been previously housed—and then Dale sat down to make an entry of the event in his day-book.
The whole thing might have been only a vivid dream, so silent was the room and so devoid of any evidence of recent excitement, while the reigning tranquillity was enhanced rather than decreased by the soft breathing of the sleepers, the ticking of the clock, and the scratching of Dale’s pen as he briefly recorded the facts of the fire that night in Beverly Square.
During the progress of the fire, small Willie Willders was in a state of the wildest, we might almost say hilarious, excitement; he regarded not the loss of property; the fire never struck him in that light. His little body and big spirit rejoiced in the whole affair as a magnificent display of fireworks and heroism.
When the fire burst through the library windows he shouted; when Sam Forest, the conductor of the fire-escape, saved Mr Auberly and the women, he hurrahed; when the tall fireman and Baxmore rescued Louisa Auberly he cheered and cheered again until his shrill voice rose high above the shouting of the crowd. When the floors gave way he screamed with delight, and when the roof fell in he shrieked with ecstasy.
Sundry and persevering were the efforts he made to break through the police by fair means and foul; but, in his energy, he over-reached himself, for he made himself so conspicuous that the police paid special attention to him, and wherever he appeared he was snubbed and thrust back, so that his great desire to get close to the men while they were at work was frustrated.
Willie had a brother who was a fireman, and he wished earnestly that he might recognise him, if present; but he knew that, being attached to the southern district of the City, he was not likely to be there, and even if he were, the men were all so much alike in their uniform, that it was impossible at a distance to distinguish one from another. True it is that his brother was uncommonly tall, and very strong; but as the London firemen were all picked men, many of them were very tall, and all of them were strong.
Not until the last engine left the ground, did Willie Willders think it advisable to tear himself away, and hasten to his home in Notting Hill, where he found his mother sitting up for him in a state of considerable anxiety. She forebore to question him that night, however.
When Willie appeared next morning—or rather, the same morning, for it was nearly four o’clock when he went to bed—he found his mother sitting by the fire knitting a sock.
Mrs Willders was a widow, and was usually to be found seated by the fire, knitting a sock, or darning one, or mending some portion of male attire.
“So you were at a fire last night, Willie?” said the widow.
“Yes, I was,” replied the boy, going up to his mother, and giving her what he styled a “roystering” kiss, which she appeared to like, although she was scarcely able to bear it, being thin and delicately formed, and somewhat weak from bad health.
“No lives lost, I hope, Willie?”
“No; there ain’t often lives lost when Sam Forest, the fire-escape-man, is there. You know Forest, mother, the man that we’ve heard so much of? Ah, it was sitch fun! You’ve no notion! It would have made you split your sides wi’ laughin’ if you’d seen Sam come out o’ the smoke carryin’ the master o’ the house on his shoulder in his shirt and drawers, with only one sock on, an’ his nightcap tied so tight under his chin that they had to cut it off—him in a swound, too, hangin’ as limp as a dead eel on Sam’s shoulder, with his head down one side, an’ his legs down the other. Oh, it was a lark!”
The boy recalled “the lark” to his own mind so vividly, that he had to stop at this point, in order to give vent to an uproarious fit of laughter.
“Was Frank there?” inquired the widow, when the fit subsided.
“Not that I know of, mother; I looked hard for him, but didn’t see him. There was lots o’ men big enough to be him; but I couldn’t get near enough to see for the bobbies. I wonder what them bobbies were made for!” continued Willie, with a look of indignation, as he seated himself at the table, and began to eat a hearty breakfast; “the long lamp-posts! that are always in the way when nobody wants ’em. I do believe they was invented for nothin’ else than to aggravate small boys and snub their inquiring minds.”
“Where was the fire, Willie?”
“In Beverly Square. I say, mother, if that there grocer don’t send us better stuff than this here bacon in future, I’ll—I’ll have to give him up.”
“I can’t afford to get better, dear,” said the widow meekly.
“I know that, mother; but he could afford to give better. However, it’s down now, so it don’t much matter.”
“Did you hear whose house was burned, Willie?”
“A Mr Oberly, or somethin’ like that.”
“Auberly!” exclaimed the widow, with a start.
“Well, p’raps it is Auberly; but whichever it is, he’s got a pretty kettle o’ fish to look after this mornin’. You seem to have heard of him before, mother?”
“Yes, Willie, I—I know him a— at least I have met with him often. You see I was better off once, and used to mingle with— but I need not trouble you with that. On the strength of our former acquaintance, I thought I would write and ask him to get you a situation in an office, and I have got a letter from him, just before you came down to breakfast, saying that he will do what he can, and bidding me send you to him between eleven and twelve to-morrow.”
“Whew!” whistled Willie, “an’ he burnt out o’ house and home, without a coat to his back or a shoe to his foot. It strikes me I’ll have to try to get him a situation.”
“He won’t be found at the house, now, I dare say, my son, so we’ll have to wait a little; but the burning of his house and furniture won’t affect him much, for he’s rich.”
“Humph! p’raps not,” said Willie; “but the burnin’ of his little girl might have—”
“You said that no lives were lost,” cried Mrs Willders, turning pale.
“No more there was, mother; but if it hadn’t bin for one o’ the firemen that jumped in at a blazin’ winder an’ brought her out through fire an’ smoke, she’d have bin a cinder by this time, an’ money wouldn’t have bought the rich man another daughter, I know.”
“True, my son,” observed Mrs Willders, resting her forehead on her hand; then, as if suddenly recollecting something, she looked up and said, “Willie, I want you to go down to the City with these socks to Frank. This is his birthday, and I sat late last night on purpose to get them finished. His station is a long way off, I know, but you’ve nothing else to do, so—”
“Nothin’ else to do, mother!” exclaimed Willie; with an offended look. “Haven’t I got to converse in a friendly way with all the crossin’-sweepers an’ shoeblacks an’ stall-women as I go along, an’ chaff the cabbies, an’ look in at all the shop-windows, and insult the bobbies? I always insult the bobbies. It does me good. I hurt ’em, mentally, as much as I can, an’ I’d hurt ’em bodily if I could. But every dog has his day. When I grow up won’t I pitch into ’em!”
He struck the table with his fist, and, shaking back his curly hair, lifted his blue eyes to his mother’s face with a stern expression, which gradually relaxed into a
Comments (0)