Mr Philip Sparks, though not naturally fond of society, was, nevertheless, obliged to mingle occasionally with that unpleasant body, for the purpose of recruiting his finances. He would rather have remained at home and enjoyed his pipe and beer in solitude, but that was not possible in the circumstances. Owing, no doubt, to the selfishness of the age in which he lived, people would not go and pour money into his pockets, entreat him to accept of the same, and then retire without giving him any farther trouble. On the contrary, even when he went out and took a great deal of trouble to obtain money—much more trouble than he would have had to take, had he been an honest working man—people refused to give it to him, but freely gave him a good deal of gratuitous advice instead, and sometimes threatened the donation of other favours which, in many instances, are said to be more numerous than ha’pence.  
Things in general being in this untoward condition, Mr Sparks went out one morning and entered into society. Society did not regard him with a favourable eye, but Sparks was not thin-skinned; he persevered, being determined, come what might, to seek his fortune. Poor fellow, like many a man in this world who deems himself a most unlucky fellow, he had yet to learn the lesson that fortunes must be wrought for, not sought for, if they are to be found.
 
Finding society gruffer than usual that morning, and not happening to meet with his or anybody else’s fortune in any of the streets through which he passed, he resolved to visit Martha Reading’s abode; did so, and found her “not at home.” With despairing disgust he then went to visit his sister.
 
Mrs Crashington was obviously at home, for she opened the door to him, and held up her finger.
 
“Hallo, Mag!” exclaimed Sparks, a little surprised.
 
“Hush!” said Mrs Crashington, admitting him, “speak low.”
 
Thus admonished, Mr Sparks asked in a hoarse whisper, “what was up?”
 
“Ned’s had a bad fall, Phil,” whispered Mrs Crashington, in a tremulous tone that was so unlike her usual voice as to make Sparks look at her in surprise not unmingled with anxiety.
 
“You don’t mean to say, Mag, that he’s a-goin’ to—to—knock under?”
 
“I hope not, Phil, but—the doctor—”
 
Here the poor woman broke down altogether, and sobbed quietly as she led her brother through the house, and into the little bed-room where the injured fireman lay.
 
Ned’s bruised, burned, and lacerated frame was concealed under a patchwork coverlet. Only his face was visible, but that, although the least injured part of his body, was so deadly pale that even Mr Sparks was solemnised by the supposition that he was in the presence of Death.
 
“Oh, Ned, Ned!” exclaimed Maggie, unable to repress her grief, “can you—can you ever forgive me?”
 
She laid her hand on the fireman’s broad breast, and passionately kissed his brow.
 
He opened his eyes, and whispered with difficulty, “Forgive you, Maggie? God for ever bless you.” He could say no more, owing to excessive weakness.
 
“Come, missus, you mustn’t disturb him,” said David Clazie, emerging from behind the curtains at the foot of the bed. “The doctor’s orders was strict—to keep ’im quiet. You’d better go into the other room, an’ your brother likewise. Pr’aps you might send ’im to tell Joe Dashwood to be ready.”
 
David Clazie, who was more a man of action than of words, quietly, but firmly, ejected the brother and sister from the little room while he was speaking, and, having shut the door, sat down at his post again as a guard over his sick comrade.
 
“Seems to me it’s all up with ’im,” observed Sparks, as he stood gazing uneasily into the fire.
 
As Mrs Crashington replied only by sobbing, he continued, after a few minutes—
 
“Does the doctor say it’s all up, Mag?”
 
“No, oh no,” replied the poor woman, “he don’t quite say so; but I can’t git no comfort from that. Ned has lost such a quantity of blood, it seems impossible for him to git round. They’re goin’ to try a operation on ’im to-day, but I can’t understand it, an’ don’t believe in it. They talk of puttin’ noo blood into ’im! An’ that reminds me that the doctor is to be here at twelve. Do run round, Phil, to the Dashwoods, and tell Joe to be here in good time.”
 
“What’s Joe wanted for?”
 
“Never mind, but go and tell him that. I can’t talk just now,” she said, pushing her brother out of the room.
 
Tapping at Joe Dashwood’s door, Phil received from a strong, deep voice permission to “come in.” He entered, and found a very different state of things from that which he had just left. A bright room, and bright, happy faces. The windows were bright, which made the light appear brighter than usual; the grate was bright; the furniture was bright; the face of the clock, whose interior seemed about to explode on every occasion of striking the hour, was bright—almost to smiling; and the pot-lids, dish-covers, etcetera, were bright—so bright as to be absolutely brilliant. Joe Dashwood and his little wife were conversing near the window, but, although their faces were unquestionably bright by reason of contentment, coupled with a free use of soap and the jack-towel, there was, nevertheless, a shade of sadness in their looks and tones. Nothing of the sort, however, appeared on the countenances of the Rosebud and young Fred Crashington. These gushing little offshoots of the Red Brigade were too young to realise the danger of Ned’s condition, but they were quite old enough to create an imaginary fire in the cupboard, which they were wildly endeavouring to extinguish with a poker for a “branch” and a bucket for a fire-engine, when Mr Sparks entered.
 
“Oh! kik, Feddy, kik; put it out kik, or it’ll bu’n down all ’e house,” cried little May, eagerly, as she tossed back a cataract of golden curls from her flushed countenance, and worked away at the handle of the bucket with all her might.
 
“All right!” shouted Fred, who had been sent to play with the Rosebud that he might be out of the way. “Down with Number 1; that’s your sort; keep ’er goin’; hooray!”
 
He brought the poker down with an awful whack on the cupboard at this point, causing the crockery to rattle again.
 
“Hallo! youngster, mind what you’re about,” cried Joe, “else there will be more damage caused by the engine than the fire—not an uncommon thing, either, in our practice!”
 
It was at this point that he replied to Mr Sparks’s knock.
 
“Come in, Mr Sparks, you’ve heard of your poor brother-in-law’s accident, I suppose?”
 
“Yes, I’ve just comed from his house with a message. You’re wanted to be there in good time.”
 
“All right, I’ll be up to time,” said Joe, putting on his coat and cap, and smiling to his wife, as he added, “It’s a queer sort o’ thing to do. We’ll be blood-relations, Ned and I, after this. Look after these youngsters, Molly, else they’ll knock your crockery to bits. Good-day. Mr Sparks.”
 
“Good-day,” replied Sparks, as Joe went out. Then, turning to Mrs Dashwood, “What sort of operation is it they’re goin’ to perform on Ned?”
 
“Did you not hear? It’s a very curious one. Ned has lost so much blood from a deep cut in his leg that the doctors say he can’t recover, no matter how strong his constitution is, unless he gits some blood put into him, so they’re goin’ to put some o’ my Joe’s blood into him.”
 
“What!” exclaimed Sparks, “take blood out o’ your husband and put it hot and livin’ into Ned? No, no, I’ve got a pretty big swallow, but I can’t git that down.”
 
“If you can’t swallow it you’ll have to bolt it, then, for it’s a fact,” returned Mary, with a laugh.
 
“But how do they mean to go about it?” asked Sparks, with an unbelieving expression of countenance.
 
“Well, I ain’t quite sure about that,” replied Mary; “they say that the doctor cuts a hole in a vein of the arms of both men, and puts a pipe, or something of that sort, into the two veins, and so lets the blood run from the one man into the other. I don’t half believe it myself, to say truth; but it’s quite true that they’re goin’ to try it on Ned. The doctor says it has bin tried before with great success, and that the main thing is to get a stout, healthy young man to take the blood from. They thought, at first, to get a healthy youth from the country, but my Joe begged so hard to let him supply his friend and comrade with what they wanted, that they agreed, and now he’s off to have it done. Ain’t it funny?”
 
“Funny!” exclaimed Sparks, “well, it is, just. But I’m not such a fool as to believe that they can pump the blood out o’ one man into another in that fashion.”
 
“I hope they can for poor Ned’s sake,” said Mary, in a sad tone, as she stirred a large pot which stood simmering on the fire.
 
There was a short silence after that, for Mary was thinking of the strange operation that was probably going on at that moment, and Phil Sparks was debating with himself as to the propriety of attempting to induce Mrs Dashwood to lend him a shilling or two. He could not easily make up his mind, however; not because he was ashamed to ask it, but, because he was afraid of receiving a rebuke from the pretty little woman. He knew that she and Martha Reading were intimate friends, and he had a suspicion that Mrs Dashwood was aware of Martha’s fondness for him, and that she bore him no good will in consequence. Besides, although one of the sweetest tempered women in London, Mary was one whose indignation could be roused, and whose clear blue eye had something overawing in it, especially to scoundrels. He therefore sat there more than an hour, conversing on various subjects, while Mary busied herself in household matters; which she occasionally left off in order to assist in extinguishing the fire in the cupboard!
 
At last Sparks resolved to make the attempt, and thought he would begin by trying to propitiate Mary by commenting on her child.
 
“That’s a pretty little girl of yours, missis,” he remarked in a casual way.
 
“That she is,” cried Mary, catching up the child and kissing her rosy face all over; “and she’s better than pretty—she’s good, good as gold.”
 
“Oh ’top, ma. Let May down, kik! Fire not out yit!”
 
“That’s right, never give in, May. Wot a jolly fireman you’d make!” cried Fred, still directing all his energies to the cupboard.
 
“That’s a queer sort o’ helmet the boy’s got on,” said Sparks, alluding to a huge leathern headpiece, of a curious old-fashioned form, which was rolling about on the boy’s head, being much too large for him.
 
“It was bought for him by my Joe, in an old curiosity shop,” said Mary.
 
“Ha!” replied Sparks. “Well, Missis Dashwood, I’ll have to be goin’, though I haven’t got no business to attend to—still, a man must keep movin’ about, you know, specially w’en he’s had no breakfast, an’ han’t got nothin’ to buy one.”
 
“That’s a sad condition,” said Mary, pursing her lips, for she knew the man.
 
“It is, missis. You couldn’t lend me half-a-crown, could you?”
 
“No, I couldn’t,” replied the little woman with decision, while her cheeks reddened; “moreover, I wouldn’t if I could. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr Sparks; it’s a disgrace for a man of your strength and years to be goin’ about borrowing as you’re in the habit of doin’; and you have got the impudence, too, to be running after poor Martha Reading, but you shall never get her if I can prevent it.”
 
Mr Sparks was much nettled by the first part of Mrs Dashwood’s speech. The last part put him in a towering passion. He started up, but had the wisdom to restrain himself to some extent.
 
“Perhaps,” he said, between his teeth, “you can’t prevent it, missis.”
 
“Perhaps not, but I shall try.”
 
At that moment, Master Fred Crashington chanced to stumble in his energetic attempts to extinguish the fire in the cupboard, which the Rosebud assured him, in excited tones, was “not out yit; gittin’ wus an’ wus!” In falling, the old-fashioned helmet flew off, and the comb of it hit Mr Sparks a severe blow on the shin-bone. In the heat of the moment he dealt Fred a violent slap on the cheek, which sent him tumbling and howling on the floor. At that moment the door opened and Joe Dashwood entered.
 
He had heard the noise before entering, and now stood with a stern frown on his face as he gazed at his wife and her visitor.
 
“Did you do that?” he demanded of Sparks, pointing to the little boy.
 
“He did, Joe,” said Mary; “but—”
 
Joe waited for no more. He seized Mr Sparks by the nape of the neck with a grip that almost choked him—strong though he was—and thrust him out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where he gave him a final kick, and shut the door.
 
“Oh, dear Joe!” exclaimed Mary, on his return, “you shouldn’t have been so violent to ’im.”
 
“W’y not, Molly? Surely you would not have me stand by and look on while he insulted you and knocked down the boy?”
 
“No, but it would have been a better rebuke if you had ordered him off quietly. No good ever comes of violence, Joe, and he’s such a spiteful, vindictive man that he will never forgive you—perhaps he’ll do you a mischief if he ever gets the chance.”
 
“I hope he will never get the chance,” replied Joe. “I hope not, but I fear him,” said Mary. “But tell me, Joe, how has the operation succeeded?”
 
“First-rate, Molly. Ned and I are blood-relations now! I don’t know how much they took out o’ me, but it don’t signify, for I am none the worse, an’ poor Ned seems much the better.”
 
Here Joe entered into a minute detail of all that had been done—how a puncture had been made in one of the veins of his arm, and another in one of the veins of Ned’s arm; and how the end of a small tube with a bulb in the middle of it had been inserted into his puncture, and the other end into Ned’s puncture, and the blood pumped, as it were, from the full-blooded man into the injured man until it was supposed that he had had enough of it; and how Ned had already shown signs of revival while he, (Joe), didn’t feel the loss at all, as was made abundantly evident by the energetic manner in which he had kicked Mr Sparks out of his house after the operation was over.
 
To all this Mary listened with wide open eyes, and Fred Crashington listened with wider open eyes; and little Rosebud listened with eyes and mouth equally open—not that she understood anything of it, but because the others were in that condition.
 
“Now, May, my pet,” cried the fireman, catching up his little one and tossing her in the air, “Ned, that is so fond of you, is a blood-relation, so you may call him ‘uncle’ next time he comes—uncle Ned!”
 
“Unkil Ned,” lisped the Rosebud.
 
“And me cousin,” chimed in Fred.
 
“Iss—cuzn,” responded May.
 
“Just so,” cried Joe, seizing Fred round the waist and tossing him on his right shoulder—Rosebud being already on his left—“come, I’ll carry you down the fire-escape now; hurrah! down we go.”
 
How long Joe would have gone on playing with the children we cannot say, for he was interrupted by the entrance of Bob and David Clazie.
 
“Come along, Joe,” said the latter, “it’s your turn to go along with us to drill.”
 
“It’s ’ard work to ’ave to go playin’ at fires doorin’ the day, an’ puttin’ of ’em out doorin’ the night, Joe; ain’t it?” said Bob Clazie.
 
“So ’tis Bob, but it must be done, you know. Duty first, pleasure afterwards,” replied Joe, with a laugh. “Besides, the green hands could never learn how to do it if they hadn’t some of the old uns to show ’em the way.”
 
“Hall right,” replied Bob; “come along.”
 
They left the room with a hearty “good-day” to Mrs Dashwood, and a nod to the children.
 
Putting on the round sailor’s caps which replaced the helmets when they were not on actual service, the three firemen took their way towards the city, and finally reached a large piece of open ground, where a number of very old houses had been partly pulled down, to be soon replaced by new ones. The Fire-Brigade had obtained permission to perform their drill there until the ground should be required.
 
It was a curious waste place in the heart of the great city, with rubbish cumbering the ground in front of the half demolished houses. Here several ungainly fire-escapes leaned against the ruined walls, and thrust their heads through broken windows, or stood on the ground, rampant, as if eager to have their heads crammed into smoke and flames. Here also were several manual engines, with their appropriate gearing and hose, and near to these were grouped a band of as fine, fresh, muscular young fellows as one could wish to see. These were the new hands of the brigade—the young men, recently engaged, who were undergoing drill. Each was a picked, and, to some extent, a proved man. The lightest and least powerful among these men was a sturdy, courageous fellow. He, like the others, had been tried at an old fire-escape which stood in a corner of the yard, and which was unusually large and cumbrous. If he had failed to “work” various portions of that escape single-handed, without assistance, he would have been pronounced physically unfit for the service. Courage and strength alone would not have been sufficient. Weight, to a certain extent, was essential.
 
Among these youths were several of the older hands, and one or two officers of the brigade, the latter being distinguished by brass ornaments or “brasses” on their shoulders. They were there to superintend and direct. In the midst of them stood their chief, explaining the minutiae of the work they had to do.
 
When our three firemen reached the drill-ground the chief was showing his recruits how to coil several lengths of the hose, so as to avoid a twist or “kink,” which might endanger its bursting when the water was turned suddenly on by the powerful “steamers.” He then pointed to the tall empty buildings beside him and ordered his recruits to go into the third floor of the premises, drag up the hose, and bring the branch to bear on the back rooms, in which fire was supposed to be raging.
 
“Look alive, now,” he said, “see how quickly you’ll manage it.”
 
Instantly the active youths sprang to their work. Some got the hose out of the box of an engine and uncoiled it length by length towards the house, others screwed the lengths together at the same time that the water-trough was being set up and the suction-pipe attached. Meanwhile, some had run up into the building, and from an upper window let down a rope so as to be ready to drag up the hose when it was made long enough to reach them. Thus they practised during the forenoon the mimic warfare with the flames which they should have to carry into actual operation at night. In another part of the yard a foreman was instructing some recruits in the use of the fire-escape. Under a neighbouring archway stood a small group of idlers looking on at these stirring operations, one of these was Philip Sparks, another was the Bloater. The interests of the first had taken him there, the second had been led to the scene by his affections. Sparks did not observe the Bloater, but the Bloater being unusually sharp, had observed Sparks, and, with a look of surprise and glee at the unexpected sight, set himself to watch and listen.
 
“That’s him,” growled Sparks in a low whisper, pointing to Joe Dashwood as he entered the yard.
 
This was said to a dark-skinned, ill-looking, powerful man who stood at his elbow. The man nodded in reply.
 
“Take a good look at him, Jeff; you’ll know him again?”
 
Jeff nodded and guessed that he would.
 
“Well, then, West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the fire-station. You won’t forget?” whispered Sparks, as he and his ill-looking friend slunk away.
 
“I say,” observed the Bloater, poking Little Jim in the ribs, and looking down at him with one eye shut, “you and I shall form an engagement for Friday night—shan’t we.”
 
Little Jim opened his eyes very wide, pressed his mouth very tight, and nodded his head violently.
 
“Well then,” continued the Bloater, repeating Sparks’s words in a deep stage whisper, “West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the fire-station. You won’t forget?”
 
Little Jim again nodded his head, and uttered a little shriek of delight. This attracted the notice of a policeman, who hinted, as delicately as possible, that the boys had better “move on.”
 
They took the hint, and retired precipitately.