Robert Michael Ballantyne - Fighting the Flames

Frank stopped, as he spoke, in front of a ruined tenement, or rather, in front of the gap which was now strewn with the charred and blackened débris of what had once been a house. The street in which it stood was a narrow, mean one, inhabited by a poor, and, to judge from appearance, a dissipated class. The remains of the house were guarded by policemen, while a gang of men were engaged in digging among the ruins, which still smoked a little here and there.

“What are they diggin’ for?” asked Willie.

“I fear they are looking for dead bodies. The house was let out to lodgers, and swarmed with people. At first it was thought that all were saved; but just before I was ordered home after the fire was got under, some one said that an old man and his grandchild were missing. I suppose they’re looking for them now.”

On inquiring of a policeman, however, Frank learned that the remains of the old man and his grandchild had already been found, and that they were searching for the bodies of others who were missing. A little beyond the spot where the fire had occurred, a crowd was gathered round a man who stood on a chair haranguing them, with apparently considerable effect, for ever and anon his observations were received with cries of “Hear, hear,” and laughter. Going along the middle of the narrow street, in order to avoid the smell of the old-clothes’-shops and pawnbrokers, as well as the risk of contact with their wares, Frank and Willie elbowed their way through the crowd to within a few yards of the speaker.

“What is he?” inquired Frank of a rather dissipated elderly woman.

“He’s a clown or a hacrobat, or somethink of that sort, in one of the theatres or music-’alls. He’s bin burnt out o’ his ’ome last night, an’s a-sellin’ off all he’s been able to save, by hauction.”

“Come; now, ladies an’ gents,” cried the clown, taking up a rather seedy-looking great-coat, which he held aloft with one hand, and pointed to it with the other, “Who’s agoin’ to bid for this ’ere garment—a hextra superfine, double-drilled, kershimere great-coat, fresh from the looms o’ Tuskany—at least it was fresh from ’em ten years ago (that was when my grandfather was made Lord Mayor of London), an’ its bin renewing its youth (the coat, not the Lord Mayor) ever since. It’s more glossy, I do assure you, ladies and gents, than w’en it fust comed from the looms, by reason of the pile havin’ worn off; and you’ll obsarve that the glossiness is most beautiful and brightest about the elbows an’ the seams o’ the back. Who bids for this ’ere venerable garment? Six bob? Come now, don’t all bid at once. Who said six bob?”

No reply being made to this, except a laugh, the clown (who, by the way, wore a similarly glossy great-coat, with a hat to match) protested that his ears must have deceived him, or his imagination had been whispering hopeful things—which was not unlikely, for his imagination was a very powerful one—when he noticed Frank’s tall figure among the crowd.

“Come now, fireman, this is the wery harticle you wants. You comed out to buy it, I know, an’ ’ere it is, by a strange coincidence, ready-made to hand. What d’ye bid? Six bob? Or say five. I know you’ve got a wife an’ a large family o’ young firemen to keep, so I’ll let it go cheap. P’raps it’s too small for you; but that’s easy put right. You’ve only got to slit it up behind to the neck, which is a’ infallible cure for a tight fit, an’ you can let down the cuffs, which is double, an’ if it’s short you can cut off the collar, an’ sew it on to the skirts. It’s water-proof, too, and fire-proof, patent asbestos. W’en it’s dirty you’ve got nothin’ to do but walk into the fire, an’ it’ll come out noo. W’en it’s thoroughly wet on the houtside, turn it hinside hout, an’ there you are, to all appearance as dry as bone. What! you won’t have it at no price? Well, now, I’ll tempt you. I’ll make it two bob.”

“Say one,” cried a baker, who had been listening to this, with a broad grin on his floury countenance.

“Ladies and gents,” cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity; “there’s an individual in this crowd—I beg parden, this assemblage—as asks me to say ‘one.’ I do say ‘one,’ an’ I say it with melancholy feelin’s as to the liberality of my species. One bob! A feller-man as has bin burnt hout of ’is ’ome an’ needs ready money to keep ’im from starvation, offers his best great-coat—a hextra superfine, double-drilled (or milled, I forget w’ich) kershimere, from the looms o’ Tuskany—for one bob!”

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