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"Where are they?" asked a brass-helmeted man, quietly, as the head of the Escape went crashing through an upper window. "The top floor! all of 'em there! top flo-o-o-r!" "No no-o-o! some on the second fl-o-o-or!" yelled Mr Twitter. "I say top floo-o-o-r," repeated the wife. "You forget baby ba-i-by!" roared the husband. A wild shriek was Mrs Twitter's reply.
The crowd had thickened, and a dull rumbling which had been audible for half a minute increased into a mighty roar as the fiery-red engine with its brass-helmeted heroes dashed round the corner, and pulled up with a crash, seeming to shoot the men off. These swarmed, for a few seconds, about the hose, water plug, and nozzles.
Polson both heard and understood, but his father did neither. Within half an hour the regiment would be on the march, and already the red-coated, brass-helmeted men, shining from head to foot and glittering in the fine array war wears before the exchange of the first blows, were moving about the open.
Their band, through that last twenty minutes, blared steadfastly the "Marseillaise." From his post upon the landing-stage the cherubic Mayor beamed to us across his nobly tri-coloured stomach a series of parting smiles. The brass-helmeted firemen surrounded him a little unsteadily, I fancied smiling too.
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