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The smoke had now shifted its coarse, and rolling away from Miss Persnips's, hung in a dark, sullen cloud above the forest but a little way off. Away went the engine and its allies, sweeping along men and boys, and also every able-bodied member of the Up-the-Ladder Club whose legs could carry him.
There was more toast, and even of a finer quality. There was another orange, and there was some jelly that Aunt Stanshy took the pains to buy at Miss Persnips's store. This was a sweet but thin-voiced little woman, who sold a variety of things in a store on the corner of the lane and Water Street. "It is nice to be sick, Aunt Stanshy." "Do you think so?" "Yes, just a grain sick."
"Where is the fire, Simes?" the bell-ringer was asked as the engine rattled toward the church-door. "Miss Persnips!" Simes meant not the place of the fire, but the source of the information. "Miss Persnips's house is afire!" shouted the engine-men. It was enough.
A willingness was expressed to moisten "Miss Persnips's place" because she had misled them, though it was unintentional on her part. Some one sang out, "She can't tell about smoke. She has only one good eye, and t'other one is a glass eye." This put them all in a good-natured mood, and the "Cataract" went home. Soon there was a fire serious enough to satisfy the most ardent of the company.
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