“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed the two boys, their tones expressing much more of sympathy than the mere words tell. Ned walked away, and they kindly let him alone.
By twos and threes the crowd thinned out. There was nothing now to see. Gradually, as the need for their streams ceased, the lines of hose were wound on their reels.
Darkness settled over the scene.
Before going to bed again the Millers had much to do. While they themselves, with other fire-fighters, had been busy in the rear of the house, a swarm of eager townsmen had been invading the front part, and lugging out everything movable upon which they might lay hands. Chairs, books, sofa, pictures, rugs,—all had been hurriedly borne across the street and piled in a heap.
Even carpets had been pulled from the floors, and bundled into the outer air.
On the top of the pile sat, as if on his own quarter-deck, Commodore Jones. The commodore might be styled as in undress uniform; slippers, trousers, and a red bandanna to keep the night damp from creeping down the neck of his nightshirt forming his outer costume.
“Who is it?” asked Mr. Miller, peering up at him, through the dusk.
“Oh, it’s only Jones. I was kinder keepin’ an eye on these things o’ yourn,” wheezed the commodore, carefully descending.
“Well, I’m sure we’re much obliged, commodore,” said Mr. Miller, knowing the voice.