While he spoke, the bells of the city rang out an alarm of fire with furious clangor, and in a few moments he saw, dashing past him, an old-fashioned hand-engine, pulled by a score or two of men who held a rope. The burning building was not many hundred yards distant from Ephraim, and he felt an inclination to see it. When he reached the scene, men with leathern buckets were pouring water into the engine, while other men were forcing the handles up and down, with the result that a thin stream fell upon the mass of flame.
He had an impulse to ask somebody why the steam fire-engines were not used, but every one seemed to be excited and busy, and he remembered what his friend had said to him about steamers.
So he expressed his disgust for the stupidity of these people in a few muttered ejaculations; and then, suddenly, bethought him of his business.
He resolved to go down to the wharf where he had expected to ship his cargo, and to ascertain what the situation was there.
As he came near to the place, he saw that it had changed since he last saw it, but a handsome ship lay in the dock, and men were carrying bags of grain aboard of her.
“That must be my cargo,” he said; “but what on earth do they mean by loading it in that manner, and upon a sailing vessel?”
He approached the man who seemed to be superintending the work, and said,—
“Is this Ephraim Batterby’s wheat?”
The man looked at him in surprise for a moment, and then, smiling, said,—
“No, sir; it is Brown and Martin’s.”