Miss Tippet looked at Willie so earnestly and put this question in tones so solemn that he was much impressed, and felt as if all his earthly hopes hung on his reply, so he admitted that he could spell.
“Good,” continued Miss Tippet. “You are, I suppose, in rather poor circumstances. Is your father poor?”
“He’s dead, ma’am; was drowned.”
“Oh! shocking, that’s very sad. Was your mother drowned, too?”
“No, ma’am, she’s alive and well—at least she’s well for her, but she an’t over strong. That’s why I want to get work, that I may help her; and she wants me to be a clerk in a office, but I’d rather be a fireman. You couldn’t make me a fireman, could you, ma’am?”
At this point Willie caught Miss Ward gazing intently at him over the top of her slate, so he threw her into violent confusion by winking at her.
“No, boy, I can’t make you a fireman. Strange wish—why d’you want to be one?”
“’Cause it’s such jolly fun,” replied Willie; with real enthusiasm, “reg’lar bangin’ crashin’ sort o’ work—as good as fightin’ any day! An’ my brother Frank’s a fireman. Such a one, too, you’ve no notion; six fut four he is, an’ as strong as—oh, why, ma’am, he could take you up in one hand, ma’am, an’ twirl you round his head like an old hat! He was at the fire in Beverly Square last night.”
This speech was delivered with such vehemence, contained so many objectionable sentiments, and involved such a dreadful supposition in regard to the treatment of Miss Tippet’s person, that the worthy lady was shocked beyond all expression. The concluding sentence, however, diverted her thoughts.
“Ah! was he indeed at that sad fire, and did he help to put it out?”