"Hullo!" says a voice. "What's all this about? You're making a bit of a hullabaloo, aren't you?"
It is Porchon.
"Come along, old man," I cry. "You must help if you wish to sleep here to-night. Pump, pump—like the devil!"
And the four of us fly about as madly as devils in holy water. The pump nearly bursts itself; we wallow in a black flood and tread on each other's toes; but little by little the clouds of smoke die away, the air becomes breathable, our eyes cease to run.
"Bring the candle from that table," I say to Pannechon, "and let's have a look at the damage."
The inquiry is short. There is no stonework behind the chimney-piece. One side of it formed the back of a cupboard with wooden doors, which was used for drying linen. The side had cracked and the flames had got through and set fire to the cupboard doors.
What about the linen inside? Has the worst happened?
"Pannechon, our linen?"
Pannechon smiles, Pannechon is well pleased with himself.
"Ah! Lieutenant, I'm a smart fellow. I had just got it away when the fire broke out. It was all aired—ah, no, there was an old pair of socks which were still wet, so I left them. Yes, there they are—socks no longer, but cinders! It must have been those that smothered us, together with a bundle of rags left at the bottom."