Safely lifted on to the back.
Every night its existence is threatened by the relentless fire demon. Every night the Fire Brigade as certainly combats and disarms it. Surely a strange, weird warfare, scarcely realised, since it is only on occasions when the demon temporarily gets the upper hand that we are reminded of its existence.
Opportunities for the display of heroism and conspicuous devotion to duty are comparatively rare in the Army and Navy. So when they occur we hear of them, and the heroes are received with acclaim. In the Fleet that never goes to sea such matters are common incidents of the day's work.
It is part of the ordinary duty of a London fireman to be a hero, and he never fails when it is expected of him.
It is natural to think of the brigade as a miniature Navy. It smells of the sea in every way. The captain is a naval man. Its crew of 1,009 are seamen, and the work of the brigade is of a nature readily performed by sailors, who are used to danger, and skilled in the art of hanging on to the skyline by their teeth.
Even the apparatus is peculiarly adapted for the use of the horny-handed sons of the sea.
It is therefore easy to understand how it is that these well-disciplined, hard-nerved men are pressed into the service of the brigade.
Many who have read of the marvellous rapidity with which the engines are turned out to a fire, or those who have been fortunate enough to see these splendid fellows at their work, may be interested in learning how a London fireman is made.
By the kindness of Commander Wells, R.N.—one of the most popular officers that ever donned the Queen's uniform—I have been able to observe the whole process, and pick up a good deal of interesting matter respecting the brigade into the bargain.
There is no objectionable formality about entering the brigade. Provided a sailor possesses the initial qualifications—he must be over 21 and under 31 years of age; have been at sea for at least five years; measure 37 inches round the chest; and be able to read and write—he simply walks into the yard of the central station at Southwark and inquires for the chief officer. The Commander examines his "discharges" and testimonials as to character and general intelligence. If he be a likely man, he is passed into the hands of the Brigade Doctor, who certifies his soundness of wind and limb. If he emerges successfully from this ordeal, he has yet a final and more trying one before him—the test of strength.