Then, with a clever whirl of the bucket, he sent its contents in a curve, spreading as it were so much golden liquid metal over the flames, a good sprinkling striking the woodwork on both sides of the window; and in an instant the sharp hissing of the encounter between fire and water was accompanied by a change, the fire still blaring furiously, but a great cloud of steam being formed, the odour of which struck Stan as abominable.
“Bravo!” cried Uncle Jeff. “Smell the hydrogen, my lad?”
As he spoke he set down his empty bucket, took up the full one at his feet, and scattered its contents in the same way and with a similar effect to that which had preceded it.
“Now,” he cried, “set down your two buckets, my lad; take back my empty ones, and bring two more.—Set yours down too, Oliver,” he continued coolly, “and do as the boy does—unless you want to play fireman.”
“No, no; go on,” said Stan’s father. “Splendid, my dear boy! Go on.”
“Yes, I’ll go on,” said Uncle Jeff coolly; “only one mustn’t waste a drop.”
As he spoke he scattered the contents of both Stan’s buckets, and then those of his brother, so deftly over the blazing woodwork that by the time the first six had been emptied the heart of Stan’s father rose with relief, for the change was wonderful. Then, as the second six bucketfuls were being thrown, the first two right upward to the ceiling, whence they began to drip in a steady shower whose drops hissed and crackled where they fell, it became evident that very little further effort would be needed to master the flames. In fact, now that the twelve buckets were nearly all exhausted, Stan found himself able to throw out the empty ones to some of the men who had gathered outside, plenty of willing hands being ready to catch them; and under the directions given in English by a loud voice outside, the men—coolies, most of them—hurried down to the edge of the wharf where the river ran muddily, and a second dozen buckets nearly finished the task.
“Stitch in time saves nine—eh, Stan?” cried Uncle Jeff merrily; “and a tumblerful of water at the beginning of a fire is better than a hogshead at the end.—H’m! there’s plenty of help now, Oliver. We’re not ruined yet, old man.”
“Thank heaven, no, Jeff!” said his brother. “I wish I had your coolness and nerve.”
“And I wish I had your nous, old fellow,” replied his brother quietly. “But there! we won’t have the place flooded. I’ll scatter about a couple of dozen more buckets over the smoking and charred wood; and then, as the mob gathering out there must be thirsty, we will distribute a few strings of copper money among them to make up for the chance of plunder that they have missed.”