e have said, the engine was not required.

"Wirtoo," observed the Bloater, sententiously, "is its own reward."

He pointed to the returning engine, and looked at Little Jim with
solemnity; whereupon Jim displayed all his teeth, nodded approval of the
sentiment, and--"sk!"

"Little Jim," continued the Bloater, shaking his head gravely, "they do
say--them as knows best, or thinks they does, which is all the same--
that there's wit in silence; if so, it appears to me that you tries to
be too witty at times."

"I dun know, Bob," replied Jim, with a meditative look, "much about wit
bein' in silence. I only wish there was wittles in it. Oh! wouldn't I
'old my tongue, just, till I was fit to bust!"

"But there ain't wittles in it, Jim, nor nothin' else worth 'avin', so
don't try it on too much to-night. You see, I'm a bit down-'earted
about the thoughts o' this 'ere black business, an' feel the want of a
cheerin' word now and agin to keep up my droopin' spirits, d'ye see; so
don't stand grinnin' there like a Cheshire cat, else I'll--"

The Bloater terminated the sentence in action, by squeezing Little Jim's
cap over his eyes. He was still engaged in this act of pleasantry when
Mr Sparks and his friend Jeff appeared on the other side of the street.
They walked smartly past the door of the fire-station, which was shut
by that time, the men having retired to their various domiciles for the
night, with the exception of the two on night duty. They stopped at the
corner of the street, looked back, and stood as if conversing casually
with each other. Meanwhile, the two boys shrank out of sight, and gazed
at them like weasels peeping out of a hole. The street, being a small
back one, was quite deserted at that hour. After talking in low tones
for a few seconds, and making sure, as Jeff said, that the coast was
clear, the incendiaries shrunk round the corner and disappeared.

"Now, Jim," whispered the Bloater, "they've gone to Number 5; let's
foller."

They were uncommonly active and sly little fellows, but, despite their
utmost efforts, they failed to gain a position of vantage from which to
observe the enemy without being seen. They did, indeed, manage to make
out that the two men were for some time busily and stealthily engaged in
the neighbourhood of Joe Dashwood's dwelling, but what they were doing
could not be ascertained. After repeated and desperate efforts to
overcome his difficulties, at the risk of his neck