Round the Block Part 15

"It's in my district!" cried Uncle Ith. "So here goes." He seized the long iron lever near him, by which the enormous clapper of the bell was swung, and moved it like the handle of a pump. The second motion was followed by a hoa.r.s.e sound, which shook the tower to its foundations, and started into listening att.i.tudes a thousand firemen in their engine or hose houses, in the streets, at the theatres, or at their own homes.

"Sha'n't I help you?" asked Bog, who always proffered his services on these occasions.

"Pooh! no. It's baby play for me." By this time Uncle Ith had evoked the second gruff note from the deep throat of the imprisoned monster below.

Then came a third in quicker succession, and louder, as if the bell had warmed up to the work, and then other notes, until the district had been struck; and then the bell, as if rejoicing in its strength to resist blows, murmured plaintively for a repet.i.tion of them. Long before this sad sound had died away, the deep ba.s.s of the City Hall bell, the shrill tenor of the Post Office bell, and the intermediate pitches of the bells all over the city, had taken up the chorus of alarm. There was a rattle of engines, hose carriages, and hook-and-ladder trucks through the streets. There was a frantic rush of men and boys, some with c.u.mbrous fire-caps on their heads, and putting on their coats as they ran. How they knew the location of the fire, none could guess, for it had not yet streamed out against the sky; but know it they did; and the dove goes to its cote not more directly than they centred from all parts of the district upon the exact spot of the fire. Meanwhile, Uncle Ith lashed his mighty instrument into a sonorous fury; and all the other bells played their echo, even to the far-away tinkler on Mount Morris, which, having few fires in its own neighborhood to report, took a pleasure in telling its little world of those which were raging down town.

For the information of his uncle, and to atone in part for his previous neglect, Bog devoted only a half eye to the Minford family, and kept the rest of his optics on the fire. Just after its discovery, the smoke had loomed up dense and black, as if it were trying to suffocate the flames beneath. Then it changed rapidly to a light blue, and was chased faster upward by two tongues of fire. These tongues leaped aloft with a sudden impulse, and shed a revelation of light over acres of houses, and brought out church steeples in vivid relief against the sky, and put a new gilding on storm-beat en vanes and weatherc.o.c.ks. All this Bog described in his own way to his uncle; and his uncle, stooping at the lever, kept on ringing with unabated zeal; and all the other bells banged away like an orchestra of which Uncle Ith was the leader.

Then Bog saw the forms of men suddenly spring into sight, as if out of the very roof, between the two fiery tongues. The tongues licked the air about them with savage whirls; but the brave fellows dodged back, and were unhurt. Then, advancing boldly again, they released their hands from something which they had been holding, and lo! four jets of water struck at the very roots of the flames, tripped at them, and made them stagger, drove them twice into the roof, and caught them with deadly accuracy as they came out again; and, in less than five minutes, changed all their brave splendor to dull, black smoke, and set the victor's mark upon them--the column of white steam which arises from the half-quenched embers, and proclaims that the fire is put out of mischief at last.

"Nothing but a kind o' white smoke, now," said Bog.

Uncle Ith, who had just rung the last stroke of a round, relinquished the lever, and looked over the shoulder of his nephew. "The fire's out,"

said he. "When you see the steam comin' up that way, you may know that the water has whipped." The old man then seated himself in the backless chair, produced a short black pipe from a crossbeam overhead, and rewarded himself with a few long puffs.

When Uncle Ith had a pipe in his mouth, he became didactic, and he therefore proceeded to renew his donations of valuable advice to his nephew, who was still looking hard out of the southeast window.

Bog c.o.c.ked his head on one side, to make a show of listening, and said "Yes, sir," now and then, which was all that his uncle expected of him.

But his whole mind, and his heart, were in the little double-windowed room, where Pet was now practising upon the piano. Through the uncurtained gla.s.s, Bog could see her hands weaving music with the keys, and almost fancy he could hear it. The inventor bent over his machine, and plied the hammer, the chisel, and the file, on various parts of it.

Now and then he would pause, stand erect, and look proudly toward his child, and keep time to her music with inclinations of his head. Bog, without knowing it, would do the same thing.

While the boy was gloating over this scene, unconscious of the swift pa.s.sage of time, the clock on the nearest church struck nine. Bog sighed, for he knew that that was Pet's hour for bed. Sure enough. Her little hands shut up the piano, and neatly smoothed down the cloth over it. Then she lit a candle, ran up to her father and kissed him, and in a moment was lost from Bog's sight in her chamber. As she disappeared, the boy's lips murmured "Good-night" with a fervor which made that simple colloquial phrase both a prayer and a blessing.

When Pet had gone, Bog suddenly found that the night had become cold, and that he was beginning to s.h.i.+ver. So he shut the southeast window, and took a seat by the fire to warm himself before going home.

BOOK FOURTH.

CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

MYNDERT VAN QUINTEM AND SON.

One morning, when Marcus Wilkeson returned home from a ramble, he found his half-sister Philomela violently dusting the furniture and books of the snug little back parlor. The air was full of dancing motes, which looked large and suffocating in the suns.h.i.+ne. Marcus had politely requested his sister, fifty times at least, _not_ to molest that sanctuary of meditation oftener than once a fortnight. To which she always replied: "I suppose you great lazy fellows would like to have the cobwebs grow on you. But you sha'n't, while I am in the house." Then, with a few dexterous flourishes of her cloth, she would start the dust up in a cloud.

On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods, merely said "Whew!" and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the dust would blow out. Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen by him. But he did not appear to notice it. Then she whisked her cloth under his very nose, as if to challenge objections. After this aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled to make a mild protest.

"Great deal of dust, sister," he said, stating what he presumed would not be contradicted.

"Is there?" replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her stratagem. "_I_ didn't notice it; nor would you, if you had some business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the house all day."

Marcus had heard that argument and triumphantly put it down so often, that he did not think it worth another word. Consequently he said nothing.

This obstinate silence galled Miss Philomela; and, after waiting full three minutes to see if Marcus would not answer, and meanwhile dusting prodigiously in his neighborhood, she said:

"Well, it's some gratification to know that you do not have the hardihood to defend yourself. You are well aware that nothing can justify a healthy, middle-aged man--I may say, a young one--in retiring from active life and society, and becoming a great lazy mope."

"I'm really too lazy to discuss it now," replied Marcus, smiling, and filling his meerschaum from the tobacco pouch which hung conveniently at the window's side.

Philomela regarded him for a moment with an expression of pity and horror. Then she heaved a sigh, and muttered something about misapplied talents.

"You had better say, 'Misapplied brooms and dusters,'" retorted her half-brother. "I should be perfectly happy now, but for this confounded dust."

"Laugh away. I know you despise my sisterly advice. But you can never say that I have not done my duty--"

"To the furniture, most a.s.suredly," interrupted Marcus.

Miss Philomela Wilkeson heaved another sigh in the best style of martyrdom, and precipitately left the room, followed by her brother's cheerful, rattling laugh.

"A good old girl enough," said Marcus to himself, "but for her well-meaning and strictly conscientious habit of making people miserable."

Then he lighted his meerschaum, closed the window, squared his chair in front of it, and looked out. His face instantly flushed with pleasure at a strange sight. The blinds of the lower parlor windows across the way, which had been shut for several weeks, were now thrown open, and the white-haired old gentleman, looking thin and pale, sat in his armchair in his old place, and was gazing at him. At least so Marcus thought; but he hesitated to bow until the old gentleman gave a distinct salutation.

Marcus returned it two or three times with emphasis, as if to express his great pleasure at seeing his unknown neighbor and friend again. He blushed as he did so, for he was conscious of wilful neglect and cruel indifference, in not having called upon him on New Year's day, or since then, during the period of the closed blinds; and worse still, in not having thought of him a dozen times, though he had taken the trouble to pa.s.s his door on his way to or from Mr. Minford's, and had felt relieved to see no black c.r.a.pe on the bell-pull.

"But then," thought Marcus, pleading with and for himself, "my mind has been occupied--very much occupied--- with other matters. Now, if he beckons to me again, I will go over to him without a moment's delay. My old friend looks very sick and unhappy."

Just then the old gentleman reached out his thin white hand, as if the motion required an effort, and beckoned twice. Marcus answered with two bows, and immediately rose, and laid down his pipe on the window sill, thereby implying that he would come over at once. The old gentleman smiled faintly, to express his delight.

In a few minutes Marcus Wilkeson stood at the antique mansion, and pulled the bell. It vibrated feebly as if it shared with the house and its owner the infirmities of age. The bell was answered by an old, neatly dressed female servant. She had been told to admit the caller instantly, and said, "Mr. Van Quintem will see you, sir."

He entered a wide hallway, and followed the noiseless step of the servant, trying to remember, without success, where he had heard the name of Van Quintem.

At the end of the hall the servant opened a door, and ushered him into a room decorated at the edges of the ceiling with heavy wooden carvings, and furnished in the style of the last century. The old gentleman partly rose from his soft armchair, supported himself by one hand on it, and extended the other to his visitor.

"My name is Myndert Van Quintem, sir," said he, "and I am very glad to see you." There was a pleasant smile in the old gentleman's pale face, and a warmth in the grasp of his thin right hand, that attested the sincerity of his words.

"And my name is Marcus Wilkeson, sir; and I am truly happy to make your acquaintance," responded the visitor, in his most genial manner.

The old gentleman here showed symptoms of faintness from the exertion of standing; and Marcus, taking him by the arm, forced him gently into his easy chair, and took a seat beside him.

"I must apologize for not having called before," said Marcus. "I--"

"Not a word, sir," interrupted the old gentleman. "It is I who must apologize for the rudeness of nodding and beckoning to a perfect stranger. But the fact was, I could not regard you as a stranger. Seeing you at your window, smoking and reading, day after day, while I was smoking and musing at mine, I gradually came to sympathize with you, and to wish that the distance across the lots was short enough to allow us to converse. I thought, perhaps, that on some subjects we might interest each other. Now, be good enough to fill that pipe and smoke it, while I tell you in few words who I am."

He pointed to a meerschaum, carved into the semblance of a Dutchman's head, which looked not unlike his own. It was fitted to a long Turkish stem, and hung against the wall by a silver chain, within reach of his hand. Five other pipes of quaint design hung near it.

Marcus protested against smoking in an invalid's presence; but the old gentleman insisted upon it, and playfully but firmly threatened to smoke the pipe himself if his guest did not. So Marcus filled the large bowl from a paper of old, mild tobacco, which hung in a pouch near it, and drew a few gentle whiffs, intending to let the pipe go out. But the old gentleman watched him.

"'Twon't do," said he. "That old pipe of mine is not used to neglect. As a particular favor, now, I beg that you'll smoke, and puff out clouds, as I have often seen you do across the way."

Marcus protested again, but the old gentleman stubbornly maintained his point; and it was not till the pungent smoke began to curl upward, that he proceeded with his personal disclosure.

"Have you ever heard my name before, Mr. Wilkeson?" said he.

Marcus bowed, and said that he had not had that pleasure.