they thought) issuing
from under the engine-room door. They gave the alarm. I happened to
be in the street at the time, purchasing muscatels for the Christmas
snap-dragon, and, after rushing up to the Quay to satisfy myself,
proceeded with all haste to Mr. Sullivan, Captain of the Brigade.

I found him at tea, but behaving in a somewhat extraordinary manner.
It is well known that Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan suffer occasionally from
domestic disagreement, due, in great measure, to the lady's temper.
Mr. Sullivan was sitting at the table with a saucer inverted upon his
head, a quantity of tea-leaves matted in his iron-grey hair, and their
juice trickling down his face. On hearing my alarming intelligence, he
said:

"I had meant to sit there for some time; indeed, until my little boy
returns with the Vicar, whom I have sent for to witness the effects of
my wife's temper. I was sitting down to tea when I heard a voice
in the street calling 'Whiting!'--a fish of which I am extremely
fond--and ran out to procure threepenny worth. On my return, my wife
here--I suppose, because she objects to clean the fish--assaulted me
in the manner you behold."

With praiseworthy public spirit, however, Mr. Sullivan forewent his
revenge, and, having cleansed his hair, ran with all speed to get out
the fire-engine.

Returning to the Quay, at about 5 p.m., I found a large crowd
assembled before the engine-room door, from which the vapour was
pouring in dense clouds. The Brigade came rattling up with their
manual in less than ten minutes. As luck would have it, this was just
the hour when the mummers, guise dancers and darkey-parties were
dressing up for their Christmas rounds; and the appearance
presented by the crowd in the deepening dusk would, in less serious
circumstances, have been extremely diverting. Two of the firemen wore
large moustaches of burnt cork beneath their helmets, and another (who
was cast to play the Turkish Knight) had found no time to remove the
bright blue dye he had been applying to his face. The pumpmaker had
come as Father Christmas, and the blacksmith (who was forcing the
door) looked oddly in an immense white hat, a flapping collar and a
suit of pink chintz with white bone buttons. He had not accomplished
his purpose when I heard a shout, and, looking up the street, saw Mr.
Wm. Freethy approaching at a brisk run. He is forty-three years old,
and his figure inclines to rotundity. The wind, still in the east,
combin