It chanced that Joe Dashwood’s engine was nearest to this house at the time, and was run up to it.
“Now then, lads, look alive,” said Joe, as the men affixed the hose and suction-pipe.
“Out o’ the way!” cried Ned Crashington to two boys who appeared to be rather curious about the operations of the firemen.
“I say,” exclaimed the Bloater in great excitement, “why—that’s the ’ouse w’ere Martha lives!”
“Who’s Martha?” asked Ned, without interrupting his operation of screwing on an additional length of hose.
“W’y, the friend o’ Joe Dashwood’s wife—Martha—Martha Reading, you know.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Ned, looking up.
At that moment Martha herself appeared at a window in the upper storey, waving her arms and shrieking wildly for help. Men were seen endeavouring to bring forward a fire-escape, but the crowd was so dense as to render this an unusually difficult and slow operation.
Without uttering a word, Ned Crashington dashed up the blazing staircase. For a moment he was lost to view, but quickly reappeared, attempting to cross a half-charred beam which overhung a yawning gulf of fire where the first and second floors had just fallen in. Suddenly a dense mass of smoke surrounded him. He staggered, threw up his arms, and was seen to fall headlong into the flames. A deep groan, or cry of horror, arose from the crowd, and wild shouts of “fetch a ladder,” “bring up the escape,” were heard, while poor Martha got out on the window-sill to avoid the flames, which were rapidly drawing towards and almost scorching her.
Just then a man was seen to dash furiously through the crowd, he fought his way madly—knocking down all who opposed him. Gaining the door of the burning house he sprang in.