“Ay, an’ he’s the gen’leman,” said another fireman, “who shoved your missus, sir, into my arms, w’en she was bent on runnin’ up-stairs.”
“Is this so?” said the little gentleman, stepping forward and grasping my hand.
Still I could not speak. I felt as if the whole affair were a dream, and looked on and listened with a vacant smile.
Just at that moment a long, melancholy wail rose above the roaring of the fire and clanking of the engines.
The cry restored me at once.
“Dumps! my doggie!” I exclaimed; and, bursting through the crowd, rushed towards the now furiously-burning house, but strong hands restrained me.
“What dog is it?” asked the elderly gentleman. A man, drenched, blackened, and bloodstained, whom I had not before observed, here said—
“A noo dog, sir, Dumps by name, come to us this wery day. We putt ’im in the scullery for the night.”
Again I made a desperate effort to return to the burning house, but was restrained as before.
“All right, sir,” whispered a fireman in a confidential tone, “I know the scullery. The fire ain’t got down there yet. Your dog can only have bin damaged by water as yet. I’ll save ’im sir, never fear.”