“Over the way,” returned Mr. Harper; “be quick! while I pacify your aunt, who is frightened to death.”
He lit Hal’s candle as he spoke, and shuffled hastily away in his slippers.
Over the way! Why Wilton’s house was over the way. Hal felt his blood rush violently through his veins. Over the way! What if it should be there? He drew on his clothes with hasty swiftness, and he heard the low, hoarse sounds of a gathering mob in the streets. The tramp of running feet, the violent knocking at doors, and the shouts of boys and men crying “Fire!”
All that was absolutely essential to wear, but nothing that would impede his activity or application of strength, did Hal put on, and then he hurried to one of the front windows of the house and looked out.
It is impossible to describe the sudden and violent shock that ran through his frame. Though he had thought it possible, he had not believed it probable that it could be Wilton’s abode which was on fire, yet his first glance told him that the lower part of that house was in flames.
A mob had gathered round; an active policeman was pushing it about to clear the way for the inhabitants to bring out their furniture from the burning house—that is, if they had a chance to do aught beyond saving their lives.
The door of the house was open, and volumes of smoke were pouring forth. A dull red flame, throwing a ruby glare, was to be seen gleaming through the windows of the kitchen and the parlour. The upper part of the house seemed lost in wreathing dull, gray, cloudy masses of vapour, which rolled up from the seat of the fire.
Rising up above the hoarse roar of the assembled mob, came the shouts of those who were on their way with the first engine. It seemed to be the herald of succour, but, alas! it was only the parish-engine, brought up by an energetic beadle, four men, and about twenty dirty ragged boys.
The turncock arrived with it, and he, though able in the daylight to find the plug-hole blindfold, could not without great difficulty discover it, with his eyes briskly exercised, at night.
At lengthy when the parish engine, bravely foremost in the rank, was ready, a mass of volunteers sprang forward to pump it. Mr. Turncock succeeded in pulling up the plug, and saturating a dozen venturesome persons, who with engineering spirits watched the operation. The hose of the parish-engine was at once connected with the stream of water, and with a hurrah the volunteers began to work the handles of the pump, but though they were made to sound jar-jar, jar-jar, jar-jar, briskly, nothing came of it. The parish-engine, as it has ever been from the hour it was first invented to the present time, was found to be practicably useless. No water could be forced into the directing pipe to play upon the burning house.