Finding society gruffer than usual that morning, and not happening to meet with his or anybody else’s fortune in any of the streets through which he passed, he resolved to visit Martha Reading’s abode; did so, and found her “not at home.” With despairing disgust he then went to visit his sister.
Mrs Crashington was obviously at home, for she opened the door to him, and held up her finger.
“Hallo, Mag!” exclaimed Sparks, a little surprised.
“Hush!” said Mrs Crashington, admitting him, “speak low.”
Thus admonished, Mr Sparks asked in a hoarse whisper, “what was up?”
“Ned’s had a bad fall, Phil,” whispered Mrs Crashington, in a tremulous tone that was so unlike her usual voice as to make Sparks look at her in surprise not unmingled with anxiety.
“You don’t mean to say, Mag, that he’s a-goin’ to—to—knock under?”
“I hope not, Phil, but—the doctor—”
Here the poor woman broke down altogether, and sobbed quietly as she led her brother through the house, and into the little bed-room where the injured fireman lay.
Ned’s bruised, burned, and lacerated frame was concealed under a patchwork coverlet. Only his face was visible, but that, although the least injured part of his body, was so deadly pale that even Mr Sparks was solemnised by the supposition that he was in the presence of Death.