t only prevents them from being harassed,
the engines from being horsed, and steam got up needlessly, but it
prevents rascals from running from station to station, and getting
several shillings, instead of the one shilling which is due to the first
intimator of any fire.

Having acknowledged the message, Bob Clazie lay down once more, gave
another expostulatory grunt, and drew his blanket over him; while Joe
Dashwood went home.

Joe's home consisted of a small apartment round the corner of the
street, within a few seconds' run of the station. Off the small
apartment there was a large closet. The small apartment was Dashwood's
drawing-room, dining-room, and kitchen; the large closet was his
bed-room.

Dashwood had a wife, "as tight a little craft, with as pretty a
figurehead," he was wont to say, "as you could find in a day's walk
through London." That was saying a good deal, but there was some truth
in it. When Joe entered, intending to go to bed for the night, he found
that Mary had just got up for the day. It was "washing-day," or
something of that sort, with Mary, which accounted for her getting up at
about three in the morning.

"Hallo, lass, up already!" exclaimed the strapping fireman as he entered
the room, which was a perfect marvel of tidiness, despite washing-day.

"Yes, Joe, there's plenty to do, an' little May don't give me much time
to do it," replied Mary, glancing at a crib where little May, their
first-born, lay coiled up in sheets like a rosebud in snow.

Joe, having rubbed the water and charcoal from his face with a huge
jack-towel, went to the wash-tub, and imprinted a hearty kiss on Mary's
rosy lips, which she considerately held up for the purpose of being
saluted. He was about to do the same to the rosebud, when Mary stopped
him with an energetic "Don't!"

"W'y not, Molly?" asked the obedient man.

"'Cause you'll wake her up."

Thus put down, Joe seated himself humbly on a sea-chest, and began to
pull off his wet boots.

"It's bin a bad fire, I think," said Mary, glancing at her husband.

"Rather. A beer-shop in Whitechapel. House of five rooms burnt out,
and the roof off."

"You look tired, Joe," said Mary.

"I _am_ a bit tired, but an hour's rest will put me all to rights.
That's the third fire I've bin called to to-night; not that I think much
about that, but the last one has bin a stiff one, an' I got a fall or
two that nigh shook the wind out o' me."

"Have something