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It was an old-fashioned house, with a high, rickety portico over the door, and a tall, narrow window a good way above it. At this window, where the flicker of the flame was reflected through the smoke that was now pouring out and blackening the old woodwork, a glimpse of a child's face had been seen, and Raspall was already in the roadway wringing his hands and calling for a ladder.
Raspall was crying more for the accident than for his injured house, which was still smouldering, though the engine had at last put out the fire. His child was safe, but he felt almost guilty for rejoicing that her life had been spared. Binks and Clodd sat patiently on the fence opposite the vicarage talking in low tones. At last the vicar came out to them and told them to go home.
He entered with hearty good-will into the scheme for weekly penny readings, and delivered an address at the preliminary meeting, in which he alluded with a sly touch of humour to the capabilities of Mr. Binks, the saddler, who was reputed to sing a famous comic song, and of Raspall, the baker, who had once tried his hand at an original Christmas carol.
They were about to ask him what he meant, when everybody there was startled by a sudden cry in the street a sudden cry and an uproar that penetrated to the inn-yard the cry of "Fire!" and the trampling of feet. They were all out in a minute, De Montfort first, and without his hat. "It's your place, Raspall, as I'm a living sinner," said Clodd, forcing himself to the front and commencing to run.
Raspall was heard to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room over the bakehouse doing nothing; and our principal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a man like that, who could amuse any company, and was fit for any company, was worth his meat anywhere at holiday-time. But we had all heard that Mr. De Montfort was about to leave.
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