For about a quarter of an hour this was kept up, the wheelwright throwing the water where he thought it would do most good; but the flames only roared the louder, and, fanned by a pleasant breeze, fluttered and sent up sparks of orange and gold, till a cask of pitch got well alight, and then the smoke arose in one dense cloud.
It was a glorious sight in spite of its horror, for the wood in the shed and the pile without burned brilliantly, lighting up the mere, gilding the reeds, and spreading a glow around that was at times dazzling.
“Pass it along quick! pass it along!” Jacob kept saying, probably to incite people to work harder; but it was not necessary, for everyone was doing his or her best, when, just as they were toiling their hardest, the wheelwright took a bucket of water, hurled it as far as he could, and then dashed on the empty vessel and turned away.
“No good,” he said bitterly, as he wiped his face. “Fire joost spits at me when I throw in the watter. It must bon down, squire, eh?”
“Yes, my man, nothing could save the place now.”
“And all my same (lard) in a jar—ten pounds good,” murmured Mrs Hickathrift.
“Ay, moother, and my Sunday clothes,” said the wheelwright with a bitter laugh.
“And my best frock.”
“Ay, and my tools, and a bit o’ mooney I’d saved, and all my stoof. Eh, but I’m about ruined, moother, and just when I was going to get on and do the bit o’ work for the dreern folk.”
The fire seemed to leap up suddenly with a great flash as if to enlighten the great fellow’s understanding, but he did not grasp the situation for a few moments, till his wife, as she bemoaned the loss of a paste-board and a flour-tub, suddenly exclaimed: