And this took place in the case of every alarm of fire, because fire is an element that will not brook delay, and it does not do to wait to ascertain whether it is worth while to turn out such a force of men for it or not.
In order, however, to prevent this unnecessary assembling of men when the fire was found to be trifling, or when, as was sometimes the case, it was a false alarm, the fireman in charge of the engine that arrived first, at once sent a man back to the station with a “stop,” that is, with an order to telegraph to the central station that the fire turns out to be only a chimney or a false alarm, and that all hands who have started from the distant stations may be “stopped.” The “stop” was at once telegraphed to the foremen, from whom it was passed (just as the “call” had been) to the outlying stations, and this second telegram might arrive within quarter of an hour of the first.
Of course the man from each station had set out before that time, and the “stop” was too late for him, but it was his duty to call at the various fire stations he happened to pass on the way, where he soon found out whether he was to “go on” or to “go back.”
If no telegram had been received, he went on to the fire; sometimes walking four or five miles to it, “at not less than four miles an hour.” On coming up to the scene of conflagration, he put on his helmet, thrust his cap into the breast of his coat, and reported himself to the chief of the fire brigade (who was usually on the spot), or to the foreman in command, and found, probably, that he had arrived just in time to be of great service in the way of relieving the men who first attacked the flames.
If, on the other hand, he found that the “stop” had been telegraphed, he turned back before having gone much more than a mile from his own station, and so went quietly home to bed. In the days of which we write the effective and beautiful system of telegraphy which now exists had not been applied to the fire stations of London, and the system of “stops” and “calls,” although in operation, was carried out much less promptly and effectively by means of messengers.
Some time before the entrance of Willie Willders into the King Street station the engine had been turned out to a fire close at hand, which proved to be only a chimney on fire, and which was put out by means of a hand-pump and a bucket of water, while Moxey was sent back with the “stop” to the station. The affair was over and almost forgotten, and the men had resumed their pipes, as we have seen, when young Rags entered and was told to go back.
Apologising for this necessary digression, we return to Joe Corney.
“The fact was,” said he, “that we had had a fearful time of it that winter—blowin’ great guns an’ snow nearly every night, an’ what wi’ heat at the fires an’ cowld i’ the streets, an’ hot wather pourin’ on us at wan minnit an’ freezin’ on us the nixt, a’most every man Jack of us was coughin’ an’ sneezin’, and watherin’ so bad at our eyes an’ noses, that I do belave if we’d held ’em over the suction-pipes we might ha’ filled the ingins without throublin’ the mains at all. So the doctor he said, says he, ‘Lads, I’ll send ye a bottle o’ stuff as’ll put ye right.’ An’ sure enough down comes the bottle that night when we was smokin’ our pipes just afther roll-call. It turned out to be the best midcine ever was. ‘Musha!’ says I, ‘here’s the top o’ the marnin’ to ye, boys!’ Baxmore he smacks his lips when he tastes it, opens his eyes, tosses off the glass, and holds it out for another. ‘Howld on; fair play!’ cried Jack Williams, so we all had a glass round. It was just like lemonade or ginger-beer, it was. So we sat down an’ smoked our pipes over it, an’ spun yarns an’ sung songs; in fact we made a jollification of it, an’ when we got up to turn in there warn’t a dhrop left i’ the bottle.
“‘You’d better go to the doctor for another bottle,’ says Moxey, as he wint out.
“‘I will,’ says I; ‘I’ll go i’ the marnin’.’