David refilled it with a look of some surprise.
Ned drained it a second time.
“Now,” said he, springing up, and tightening his belt, “I’m all right, come along, Bob!”
With that he rushed into the burning house, and in a few seconds was seen to take the branch from a fireman on one of the upper floors, and drag it out on a charred beam that overhung the fire. The spot on which they stood was brilliantly illuminated, and it was seen that the fireman remonstrated with Ned, but the latter thrust him away, and stepped out on the beam. He stood there black as ebony, with a glowing background of red walls and fire, and the crowd cheered him for his unwonted courage; but the cheer was changed abruptly into a cry of alarm as the beam gave way, and Ned fell head foremost into the burning ruins.
The chief of the brigade—distinguishable everywhere by his tall figure—observed the accident, and sprang towards the place.
“If he’s not killed by the fall, he’s safe from the fire, for it is burnt out there,” he remarked to David Clazie, who accompanied him. Before they reached the place, Joe Dashwood and two other men had rushed in. They found Ned lying on his back in a mixture of charcoal and water, almost buried in a mass of rubbish which the falling beam had dragged down along with it. In a few seconds this was removed, and Ned was carried out and laid on the pavement, with a coat under his head.
“There’s no cut anywhere that I can see,” said Joe Dashwood examining him.
“His fall must have been broke by goin’ through the lath and plaster o’ the ceilin’ below,” suggested Bob Clazie.
At that moment, there was a great crash, followed by a loud cry, and a cheer from the multitude, as the roof fell in, sending up a magnificent burst of sparks and flame, in the midst of which Ned Crashington was borne from the field of battle.
While this scene was going on, Mrs Crashington and her brother were still seated quietly enjoying their tea—at least, enjoying it as much as such characters can be said to enjoy anything.