time than is occupied in writing it. The "call"
came up a tube to the room I was sitting in,
and the single word "Manual" was given
in reply. A rapid change of coats, a catch at
the vicious helmet, and we are at the station
door, where the engine is ready manned, and the
savage-looking horses eager to be off. "Under
three minutes from the time of the first call to
our turning the corner of the first street,"
whispers my guide; but this makes no impression,
and indeed seems rather a long time than
otherwise, to a man who feels he's been acting
a flash of lightning. "Hi! hi! hi!" shout the
sturdy fellows on the look-out. "Hi! hi! hi!"
echo the silent streets we tear through. Firemen
have perched themselves on odd quaint
parts of the engine until they look like green
and red excrescences growing there; our horses
clatter along as if madly sharing the excitement;
and idle loungers follow us, or point our way
out lazily to each other as we rush by. But
the convexity of the wood-covered tank upon
which I sit continues to give me most serious
trouble. My neighbours preserve their
statuesque attitudes, keeping their hands folded
before them, and disdaining to move a muscle
even when we jerk round the sharpest corners.
The shouting is confined to the two foremen,
one of whom stands on each side the driver, in
the attitude of pilots on the watch. Their
lungs are of great power. The rather stout
foreman on my side might have passed in
any competition for the magnitude, frequency,
and volume of his "Hi! hi! hi." The other
and slimmer foreman's voice is a note or two
shriller, and after some experience of the effect of
speaking-trumpets during a storm at sea, I am
disposed to say his shouts would be heard above
the loudest blast from the most sonorous wind-
instrument in the world. When both fat and
thin foreman mingled their voices, the effect was
simply terrific, and my seat seemed to slope to
the ground more maliciously than ever. Then
the gin-shops emptied themselves, and their late
occupants gazed after us as we continued our
demoniacal rush; then pedestrians suspended
their chat, and seemed to say, "There's a fire
somewhere," with an air of giving information;
then cabmen, omnibus drivers, and riders
craned their necks eagerly to mark the way we
took, and to look for the red smoke mark in
the sky; then elf-like shadows fell across the
upper windows of the houses, and night capped
heads were thrust out, while the clamp, clash,
clamp of the horses' hoofs, the fitful glare from
our engine lamps, and the motionless disciplined
silence of the firemen—whose duty it is to keep
still, just as it is the foremen's functions to
shout—have an appropriateness of their own.
Hi! hi! hi! while my left-hand neighbour
exchanges signals with the man in charge of the
fire-escape by Aldgate church, each extending
his arm level from the shoulder like a human
telegraph-post. This I learn subsequently—for
apart from my objection to transgress fixed
rules, my energies are devoted to sticking on,
and conversation would be a mockery—
apprises the keeper of the fire-escape that he
will not be wanted for the errand we are bound
on. Our fire is at Horsleydown-stairs, a riverside
storehouse, where there are no women or
children to be saved from upper windows, but
only sacks, and bales, and packing-cases, for
which the ladder would be useless. Hi! hi! hi!
down the Minories, at a spanking gallop which
leaves me breathless, when we meet a larger
fire-engine than our own trotting quietly back. Its
foreman jumps down, and, giving us a military
salute, explains how he "met 'the stop' when
half way there, and that it was only some
straw which had caught fire, which the
warehousemen had put out themselves." There is
nothing for it but to turn back; and it is with an
undisguised feeling of personal injury that I
find myself quietly trotting through the streets
we galloped and shouted along a few minutes
before.

Another experience—a false alarm of fire,
given to show the speed with which engines
can be brought to a given spot. We are on
Southwark-bridge, on a dark and windy night,
and a couple of policemen for messengers are
our first want. "The men in charge would
refuse to listen to a call from one of the public
until they had corroborated it in some way; but
when a policeman in uniform gives the alarm,
it's their duty to turn out at once." We wait,
even more then the conventional period for
one of those estimable public servants. On
arrival, he proves dense, stupid, and disagreeably
destitute of humour. "There ain't no
fire as I can see," was his response to a
carefully elaborated explanation of our motive
for sending him with a false alarm.
Wearily, but patiently, the ground is gone over
again, and our purpose laboriously made clear.
"But how can engines come to a fire when
there ain't one?" was conscientious, but
embarrassing; so our friend, who remained
provokingly civil and good tempered throughout,
was finally told to find one of his fellows, and
return to us for instructions. This done, both
policemen were directed to call at the Watling-street
and Thames-street Fire-Brigade stations,
with the message, "Wanted at Southwark
toll-bridge," and to come away before a single
question could be put. We impressed upon
them that their function ended here; that
whether we set the Thames on fire during their
absence, or whether we exercised our authority
improperly, and carried on an idle hoax, was no
concern of theirs; and that, having recognised
our credentials, their duty ended with delivering
the message and earning the reward. It
wanted seven minutes to eleven when they
started, and at two minutes past we heard the
bark of a dog and the sound of wheels. This was
"the curricle" from Watling-street, a small
hand-engine, drawn by two men, and always
accompanied by Captain Shaw's dog. It must
have been patent both to bipeds and quadruped
that neither the toll-house nor the adjacent
buildings were alight, long before they reached
the summit of the little hill; but there was no