While one cannot but smile at the humorous side of this mock rescue, there is much of tragedy in the actual work of this kind which most members of the brigade are called upon to perform at one time or another.
I cannot help emphasising my conviction that the brigade is taken too much as a matter of course. At all big fires some member of the brigade is sure to receive injury; this is amply proved by statistics. For example, in 1897 the number of accidents to members of the brigade was 111. That is to say, one man in ten received a more or less serious hurt in the execution of his duty. Fortunately, no fatal case is reported.
In spite of this percentage the men are the happiest of fellows. They love and respect their Commander, at which there is no reason for surprise, and they go to their duty cheerfully, no matter what the danger or inconvenience may be.
The most pathetic record of heroism I know is that contained in a corner cupboard of the Instruction Room. Here are the helmets of men who have died at their posts. In more cases than one their lives have been sacrificed for others.
Bent, battered, twisted, and torn into every conceivable shape, they intimate only too clearly the awful nature and suddenness of such a death.
The appended label describes how every man met his death. It is the story we always hear of the British sailor, whether he be afloat or ashore—blind, unfailing devotion to duty, no matter how hopeless his case.
The remnants of uniform and equipment in the foreground of the picture are all that was found of Jacobs, the poor fellow who was burned like a rat in a hole at the Wandsworth fire in 1889.
I will not enlarge upon this distressing subject. They were grand fellows all of them, worthy of our reverence and respect.
A PROMPT RESCUE—USING THE CHAIR KNOT.