“Hallo, lass, up already!” exclaimed the strapping fireman as he entered the room, which was a perfect marvel of tidiness, despite washing-day.
“Yes, Joe, there’s plenty to do, an’ little May don’t give me much time to do it,” replied Mary, glancing at a crib where little May, their first-born, lay coiled up in sheets like a rosebud in snow.
Joe, having rubbed the water and charcoal from his face with a huge jack-towel, went to the wash-tub, and imprinted a hearty kiss on Mary’s rosy lips, which she considerately held up for the purpose of being saluted. He was about to do the same to the rosebud, when Mary stopped him with an energetic “Don’t!”
“W’y not, Molly?” asked the obedient man.
“’Cause you’ll wake her up.”
Thus put down, Joe seated himself humbly on a sea-chest, and began to pull off his wet boots.
“It’s bin a bad fire, I think,” said Mary, glancing at her husband.
“Rather. A beer-shop in Whitechapel. House of five rooms burnt out, and the roof off.”
“You look tired, Joe,” said Mary.
“I am a bit tired, but an hour’s rest will put me all to rights. That’s the third fire I’ve bin called to to-night; not that I think much about that, but the last one has bin a stiff one, an’ I got a fall or two that nigh shook the wind out o’ me.”