One pleasant afternoon in spring David Clazie and Ned Crashington sat smoking together in front of the fire in the lobby of the station, chatting of hair-breadth escapes by flood and fire.  
“It’s cold enough yet to make a fire a very pleasant comrade—w’en ’e’s inside the bars,” observed David.
 
“H’m,” replied Crashington.
 
As this was not a satisfactory reply, David said so, and remarked, further, that Ned seemed to be in the blues.
 
“Wotever can be the matter wi’ you, Ned,” said David, looking at his companion with a perplexed air; “you’re a young, smart, ’ealthy fellar, in a business quite to your mind, an’ with a good-lookin’ young wife at ’ome, not to mention a babby. W’y wot more would you ’ave, Ned? You didn’t ought for to look blue.”
 
“Pr’aps not,” replied Ned, re-lighting his pipe, and puffing between sentences, “but a man may be in a business quite to his mind and have a good-looking wife, and a babby, and health to boot, without bein’ exactly safe from an attack of the blues now and then, d’ye see? ‘It ain’t all gold that glitters.’ You’ve heard o’ that proverb, no doubt?”
 
“Well, yes,” replied Clazie.
 
“Ah. Then there’s another sayin’ which mayhap you’ve heard of too: ‘every man’s got a skeleton in the cupboard.’”
 
“I’ve heard o’ that likewise,” said Clazie, “but it ain’t true; leastways, I have got no skeleton in none o’ my cupboards, an’, wot’s more, if I ’ad, I’d pitch him overboard.”
 
“But what if he was too strong for you?” suggested Ned.
 
“Why, then—I don’t know,” said Clazie, shaking his head.
 
Before this knotty point could be settled in a satisfactory manner, the comrades were interrupted by the entrance of a man. He was a thick-set, ill-favoured fellow, with garments of a disreputable appearance, and had a slouch that induced honest men to avoid his company. Nevertheless, Ned Crashington gave him a hearty “good afternoon,” and shook hands.
 
“My brother-in-law, Clazie,” said Ned, turning and introducing him, “Mr Sparks.”
 
Clazie was about to say he “was ’appy to,” etcetera, but thought better of it, and merely nodded as he turned to the grate and shook the ashes out of his pipe.
 
“You’ll come and have a cup of tea, Phil? Maggie and I usually have it about this time.”
 
Phil Sparks said he had no objection to tea, and left the station with Ned, leaving David Clazie shaking his head with a look of profound wisdom.
 
“You’re a bad lot, you are,” growled David, after the man was gone, “a werry bad lot, indeed!”
 
Having expressed his opinion to the clock, for there was no one else present, David thrust both hands into his pockets, and went out to take an observation of the weather.
 
Meanwhile Ned Crashington led his brother-in-law to his residence, which, like the abodes of the other firemen, was close at hand. Entering it he found his “skeleton” waiting for him in the shape of his wife. She was anything but a skeleton in aspect, being a stout, handsome woman, with a fine figure, an aquiline nose, and glittering black eyes.
 
“Oh, you’ve come at last,” she said in a sharp, querulous tone, almost before her husband had entered the room. “Full ten minutes late, and I expected you sooner than usual to-night.”
 
“I didn’t know you expected me sooner, Maggie. Here’s Phil come to have tea with us.”
 
“Oh, Phil, how are you?” said Mrs Crashington, greeting her brother with a smile, and shaking him heartily by the hand.
 
“Ah, if you’d only receive me with a smile like that, how different it might be,” thought Ned; but he said nothing.
 
“Now, then, stoopid,” cried Mrs Crashington, turning quickly round on her husband, as if to counteract the little touch of amiability into which she had been betrayed, “how long are you going to stand there in people’s way staring at the fire? What are you thinking of?”
 
“I was thinking of you, Maggie.”
 
“H’m! thinking no good of me, I dare say,” replied Maggie, sharply.
 
“Did your conscience tell you that?” asked Ned, with a heightened colour.
 
Maggie made no reply. One secret of her bad temper was that she had all her life been allowed to vent it, and now that she was married she felt the necessity of restraining it very irksome. Whenever she had gone far enough with Ned, and saw that he was not to be trifled with, she found that she possessed not only power to control her temper, but the sense, now and then, to do so! On the present occasion she at once busied herself in preparing tea, while Ned sat down opposite his brother-in-law, and, taking Fred, his only child, a handsome boy of about five years of age, on his knee, began to run his fingers through his jet black curly hair.
 
“Did you get your tasks well to-day, Fred?” asked Ned.
 
“No, father.”
 
“No?” repeated Ned in surprise; “why not?”
 
“Because I was playin’ with May Dashwood, father.”
 
“Was that a good reason for neglecting your dooty?” demanded Ned, shaking his head reproachfully, yet smiling in spite of himself.
 
“Iss, father,” replied the boy boldly.
 
“You’re wrong, Fred. No doubt you might have had a worse reason, but play is not a good reason for neglect of dooty. Only think—what would be said to me if I was called to a fire, and didn’t go because I wanted to play with May Dashwood?”
 
“But I was sent for,” pleaded Fred. “Mrs Dashwood had a big—oh, such a big washin’, an’ sent to say if I might be let go; an’ mother said I might, so I went.”
 
“Ah, that alters the case, Fred,” replied his father, patting the boy’s head. “To help a woman in difficulties justifies a’most anything. Don’t it, Phil?”
 
Thus appealed to, Phil said that he didn’t know, and, what was more, he didn’t care.
 
“Now don’t sit talkin’ nonsense, but sit in to tea,” said Mrs Crashington.
 
The stout fireman’s natural amiability had been returning like a flood while he conversed with Fred, but this sharp summons rather checked its flow; and when he was told in an exasperating tone to hand the toast, and not look like a stuck pig, it was fairly stopped, and his spirit sank to zero.
 
“Have you got anything to do yet?” he asked of Phil Sparks, by way of cheering up a little.
 
“No, nothin’,” replied Sparks; “leastways nothin’ worth mentionin’.”
 
“I knew his last application would fail,” observed Maggie, in a quietly contemptuous tone.
 
His last application had been made through Ned’s influence and advice, and that is how she came to know it would fail.
 
Ned felt a rising of indignation within him which he found it difficult to choke down, because it was solely for his wife’s sake that he had made any effort at all to give a helping hand to surly Phil Sparks, for whom he entertained no personal regard. But Ned managed to keep his mouth shut. Although a passionate man, he was not ill-tempered, and often suffered a great deal for the sake of peace.
 
“London,” growled Sparks, in a tone of sulky remonstrance, “ain’t a place for a man to git on in. If you’ve the luck to have friends who can help you, an’ are willin’, why it’s well enough; but if you haven’t got friends, its o’ no manner o’ use to try anything, except pocket-pickin’ or house-breakin’.”
 
“Come, Phil,” said Ned, laughing, as he helped himself to a huge round of buttered toast, “I ’ope you han’t made up your mind to go in for either of them professions, for they don’t pay. They entail hard work, small profits, an’ great risk—not to mention the dishonesty of ’em. But I don’t agree with you about London neither.”
 
“You never agree with nobody about anythink,” observed Mrs Crashington, in a low tone, as if the remark were made to the teapot; but Ned heard it, and his temper was sorely tried again, for, while the remark was utterly false as regarded himself, it was particularly true as regarded his wife. However, he let it pass, and continued—
 
“You see, Phil, London, as you know, is a big place, the population of it being equal to that of all Scotland—so I’m told, though it ain’t easy to swallow that. Now it seems to me that where there’s so many people an’ so much doin’, it ought to be the very place for smart, stout fellows like you. If I was you, I’d—”
 
“Yes, but you ain’t him,” interrupted Mrs Crashington, testily, “so it won’t do him much good to tell what you would or wouldn’t do.”
 
“I’ve heard of wives, Maggie, who sometimes tried to be agreeable,” said Ned, gravely.
 
“If I don’t suit you, why did you marry me?” demanded Maggie.
 
“Ah, why indeed?” said Ned, with a frown. At this critical point in the conversation, little Fred, who was afraid that a storm was on the point of bursting forth, chanced to overturn his tin mug of tea. His mother was one of those obtuse women who regard an accident as a sin, to be visited by summary punishment. Her usual method of inflicting punishment was by means of an open-handed slap on the side of the head. On this occasion she dealt out the measure of justice with such good-will, that poor little Fred was sent sprawling and howling on the floor.
 
This was too much for Ned, who was a tender-hearted man. The blood rushed to his face; he sprang up with such violence as to overturn his chair, seized his cap, and, without uttering a word, dashed out of the room, and went downstairs three steps at a time.
 
What Ned meant to do, or where to go, of course no one could tell, for he had no definite intentions in his own mind, but his energies were unexpectedly directed for him. On rushing out at the street door, he found himself staggering unexpectedly in the arms of Bob Clazie.
 
“Hullo! Bob, what’s up?”
 
“Turn out!” said Bob, as he wheeled round, and ran to the next fireman’s door.
 
Ned understood him. He ran smartly to the station, and quickly put on helmet, belt, and axe. Already the engine was out, and the horses were being harnessed. In two minutes the men were assembled and accoutred; in three they were in their places—the whip cracked, and away they went.
 
It was a good blazing, roaring, soul-stirring fire—a dry-salter’s warehouse, with lots of inflammable materials to give it an intense heart of heat, and fanned by a pretty stiff breeze into ungovernable fury—yet it was as nothing to the fire that raged in Ned’s bosom. If he had hated his wife, or been indifferent to her, he would in all probability, like too many husbands, have sought for congenial society elsewhere, and would have been harsh to her when obliged to be at home. But Ned loved his wife, and would have made any sacrifice, if by so doing, he could have smoothed her into a more congenial spirit. When, therefore, he found that his utmost efforts were of no avail, and that he was perpetually goaded, and twitted, and tweaked for every little trifle, his spirit was set alight—as he at last remarked in confidence to David Clazie—and all the fire-engines in Europe, Asia, Africa and America couldn’t put it out.
 
The dry-salter’s premises seemed to have been set on fire for poor Ned’s special benefit that night. They suited his case exactly. There was more than the usual quantity of smoke to suffocate, and fire to roast, him. There was considerable danger too, so that the daring men of the brigade were in request—if we may say that of a brigade in which all the men were daring—and Ned had congenial work given him to do. The proverbial meeting of Greek with Greek was mere child’s play to this meeting of fire with fire. The inflamed Ned and the blazing dry-salter met in mortal conflict, and the result was tremendous! It made his brother firemen stand aghast with awful admiration, to observe the way in which Ned dashed up tottering staircases, and along smoke-choked passages, where lambent flames were licking about in search of oxygen to feed on, and the way in which he hurled down brick walls and hacked through wood partitions, and tore up fir-planking and seized branch and hose, and, dragging them into hole-and-corner places, and out upon dizzy beams, and ridge poles, dashed tons of water in the fire’s face, until it hissed again. It was a fine example of the homoeopathic principle that “like cures like;” for the fire in Ned’s bosom did wonders that night in the way of quenching the fire in the dry-salter’s warehouse.
 
When this had gone on for an hour, and the fire was at its height, Ned, quite exhausted, descended to the street, and, sitting down on the pavement, leaned against a rail.
 
“If you goes on like that, Ned,” said Bob Clazie, coming up to him, “you’ll bust yourself.”
 
“I wish I could,” said Ned.
 
At that moment, Bob’s brother David came towards them with the brandy bottle.
 
“Have a glass, Ned, you need it,” said David.
 
Ned, although not a teetotaller, was one of the men who did not require spirits, and therefore seldom took more than a sip, but he now seized the glass, and drained it eagerly.
 
“Another,” he cried, holding it up.
 
David refilled it with a look of some surprise.
 
Ned drained it a second time.
 
“Now,” said he, springing up, and tightening his belt, “I’m all right, come along, Bob!”
 
With that he rushed into the burning house, and in a few seconds was seen to take the branch from a fireman on one of the upper floors, and drag it out on a charred beam that overhung the fire. The spot on which they stood was brilliantly illuminated, and it was seen that the fireman remonstrated with Ned, but the latter thrust him away, and stepped out on the beam. He stood there black as ebony, with a glowing background of red walls and fire, and the crowd cheered him for his unwonted courage; but the cheer was changed abruptly into a cry of alarm as the beam gave way, and Ned fell head foremost into the burning ruins.
 
The chief of the brigade—distinguishable everywhere by his tall figure—observed the accident, and sprang towards the place.
 
“If he’s not killed by the fall, he’s safe from the fire, for it is burnt out there,” he remarked to David Clazie, who accompanied him. Before they reached the place, Joe Dashwood and two other men had rushed in. They found Ned lying on his back in a mixture of charcoal and water, almost buried in a mass of rubbish which the falling beam had dragged down along with it. In a few seconds this was removed, and Ned was carried out and laid on the pavement, with a coat under his head.
 
“There’s no cut anywhere that I can see,” said Joe Dashwood examining him.
 
“His fall must have been broke by goin’ through the lath and plaster o’ the ceilin’ below,” suggested Bob Clazie.
 
At that moment, there was a great crash, followed by a loud cry, and a cheer from the multitude, as the roof fell in, sending up a magnificent burst of sparks and flame, in the midst of which Ned Crashington was borne from the field of battle.
 
While this scene was going on, Mrs Crashington and her brother were still seated quietly enjoying their tea—at least, enjoying it as much as such characters can be said to enjoy anything.
 
When Ned had gone out, as before mentioned, Phil remarked:—
 
“I wouldn’t rouse him like that, Mag, if I was you.”
 
“But he’s so aggravatin’,” pleaded Mrs Crashington.
 
“He ain’t half so aggravatin’ as you are,” replied Phil, gruffly. “I don’t understand your temper at all. You take all the hard words I give you as meek as a lamb, but if he only offers to open his mouth you fly at him like a turkey-cock. However, it’s no business o’ mine, and now,” he added, rising, “I must be off.”
 
“So, you won’t tell me before you go, what sort of employment you’ve got?”
 
“No,” replied Phil, shortly.
 
“Why not, Phil?”
 
“Because I don’t want you to know, and I don’t want your husband to know.”
 
“But I won’t tell him, Phil.”
 
“I’ll take good care you can’t tell him,” returned Phil, as he fastened a worsted comforter round his hairy throat. “It’s enough for you to know that I ain’t starvin’ and that the work pays, though it ain’t likely to make my fortin’.”
 
Saying this, Mr Sparks condescended to give his sister a brief nod and left the house.
 
He had not been gone much more than a couple of hours, when Mrs Crashington, having put little Fred to sleep, was roused from a reverie by the sound of several footsteps outside, followed by a loud ring at the bell; she opened the door quickly, and her husband was borne in and laid on his bed.
 
“Not dead?” exclaimed the woman in a voice of agony.
 
“No, missus, not dead,” said David Clazie, “but hardly better, I fear.”
 
When Maggie looked on the poor bruised form, with garments torn to shreds, and so covered with charcoal, water, lime, and blood, as to be almost an indistinguishable mass, she could not have persuaded herself that he was alive, had not a slight heaving of the broad chest told that life still remained.
 
“It’s a ’orrible sight, that, missus,” said David Clazie, with a look that seemed strangely stern.
 
“It is—oh it is—terrible!” said Mrs Crashington, scarce able to suppress a cry.
 
“Ah, you’d better take a good look at it,” added Clazie, “for it’s your own doing, missus.”
 
Maggie looked at him in surprise, but he merely advised her to lend a hand to take the clothes off, as the doctor would be round in a minute; so she silently but actively busied herself in such duties as were necessary.
 
Meanwhile Phil Sparks went about the streets of London attending to the duties of his own particular business. To judge from appearances, it seemed to be rather an easy occupation, for it consisted mainly in walking at a leisurely pace through the streets and thoroughfares, with his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth.
 
Meditation also appeared to be an important branch of this business, for Phil frequently paused in front of a large mansion, or a magnificent shop, and gazed at it so intently, that one might have almost fancied he was planning the best method of attempting a burglary, although nothing was farther from Phil’s intentions. Still, his meditations were sometimes so prolonged, that more than one policeman advised him, quite in a friendly way, to “move on.”
 
Apparently, however, Phil turned over no profit, on this business, and was about to return home supperless to bed, when he suddenly observed smoke issuing from an upper window. Rare and lucky chance! He was the first to observe it. He knew that the first who should convey the alarm of fire to a fire-station would receive a shilling for his exertions. He dashed off at once, had the firemen brought to the spot in a few minutes, so that the fire was easily and quickly overcome. Thus honest Phil Sparks earned his supper, and the right to go home and lay his head on his pillow, with the happy consciousness of having done a good action to his fellow-men, and performed a duty to the public and himself.