“Look here,” he remonstrated, “that fellow Cardomay is awful. How about slipping quietly away?”
But Mr. Bryan would not hear of it.
In the Small Arms factory next door the night-watchman was making himself comfortable against his vigil. By means of a pile of straw-filled cases he constructed an easy-chair. The light of the small caged gas-jet being insufficient to illuminate his Late Football Extra, he produced from his pocket a stump of candle and waxed it to the top of one of the cases. This done, he ensconced himself luxuriously, spread out the paper, and settled down for a “nice read.”
Meanwhile the third act of “The Flag” proceeded. Eddies of rebellion were already lapping against the walls of the consulate. The Colonel’s daughter, disguised as a gipsy, had dropped from the walls and was away in search of aid—and the audience had begun to realise that in the next act there would be trouble, with a capital “T.” They were right.
The print of the halfpenny Football Edition, held in the hands of the night-watchman, began to blur. Delicious little thrills of fatigue pulsed through his limbs. He reflected how foolish he had been never before to have disposed himself so comfortably. Also he reflected how good that pint of dinner ale had been, partaken before coming on duty. Odd thing he had never drunk of dinner ale before! In the future he would remedy that omission—a rounder, mellower and more palatable beverage would be hard to conceive. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to picture the big glass tankard and the burnt Sienna distillation it had contained. He tried to open them again but they revolted against the impulse.
“Aft’ all,” he muttered, “aft’ all—wha’s it marrer?”
The paper slipped from his fingers and dropped to the top of the case beside the candle. His hand made a lumbering, futile gesture to regain it, then fell to his knee and skidded off inertly. His head rolled a trifle, lurched forward and his body went limp. Then came the heavy regular purr of a man breathing.
A capricious draught slanted the flame of the candle until it gently touched the corner of the newspaper. Being damp, the paper burnt slowly and only in one direction. Finally it went out, but not before setting light to an enthusiastic wisp of straw. The straw realised at once what was required, and passed the dancing yellow flame along the ridge of the line of overflowing cases. The lids of the cases were screwed down and the heat generated from the burning wisps of protruding straw was insufficient to ignite them. This was very disappointing, for very soon the straw had burnt out and, but for one insignificant circumstance, a very enjoyable fire would have been lost to the neighbourhood. The circumstance in question was provided by a stump of pencil which hung on a string from a notice-board. A final spurt of flame from the last tuft of straw ignited the little piece of cedar-wood, which—nothing if not communicative—promptly conveyed its sorrow to the string supporting it. The string burnt through and the flaming pencil dropped to the floor upon a little heap of paper and rubbish. In these sympathetic surroundings it received every encouragement, and in very little time the whole pile was blazing merrily. A chance puff of wind from an open doorway scattered fragments in three directions, in each of which a cheerful fire resulted.
The packing-room, a few feet down the passage, where stacks of empty cartridge-boxes were stored, was, perhaps, the most successful; although, considering the non-inflammable nature of much of its contents, the small recess beneath the wooden staircase competed very creditably. The third fire was insignificant, confining itself to the cremation of a row of overalls hanging on a line of hooks.
When the night-watchman woke, he found himself confronted with a task beyond the reaches of his capacity. His rush to the fire rack resulted in oversetting two buckets of water, and the flames, laughing at his failure, tore down the ceiling of the packing-room and mounted gleefully to the storey above.