New Grub Street (63 page)

So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled
over something or somebody in the dark.

'Who is that?' he cried.

The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the
house and called to the landlady.

'Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?'

'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs,' replied the woman, indulgently.
'Don't you mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no 'arm: he's only had a
little too much. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as I've
got my 'ands clean.'

'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious,' remarked
the realist with a chuckle, and went his way.

He walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about
midnight drew near to his own quarter again. He had just turned up
by the Middlesex Hospital, and was at no great distance from
Clipstone Street, when a yell and scamper caught his attention; a
group of loafing blackguards on the opposite side of the way had
suddenly broken up, and as they rushed off he heard the word
'Fire!' This was too common an occurrence to disturb his
equanimity; he wondered absently in which street the fire might be,
but trudged on without a thought of making investigation. Repeated
yells and rushes, however, assailed his apathy. Two women came
tearing by him, and he shouted to them: 'Where is it?'

'In Clipstone Street, they say,' one screamed back.

He could no longer be unconcerned. If in his own street the
conflagration might be in the very house he inhabited, and in that
case—— He set off at a run. Ahead of him was a thickening throng,
its position indicating the entrance to Clipstone Street. Soon he
found his progress retarded; he had to dodge this way and that, to
force progress, to guard himself against overthrows by the torrent
of ruffiandom which always breaks forth at the cry of fire. He
could now smell the smoke, and all at once a black volume of it,
bursting from upper windows, alarmed his sight. At once he was
aware that, if not his own dwelling, it must be one of those on
either side that was in flames. As yet no engine had arrived, and
straggling policemen were only just beginning to make their way to
the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort Biffen moved forward
yard by yard. A tongue of flame which suddenly illumined the fronts
of the houses put an end to his doubt.

'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of
people in front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save
something!'

His educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again
and again he succeeded in getting forward, and at length was near
enough to see that people were dragging articles of furniture out
on to the pavement.

'That you, Mr Biffen?' cried someone to him.

He recognised the face of a fellow-lodger.

'Is it possible to get up to my room?' broke frantically from
his lips.

'You'll never get up there. It's that—Briggs'—the epithet was
alliterative—''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll—well get roasted
to death.'

Biffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs
Willoughby, the landlady, who was carrying a huge bundle of
household linen.

'I told you to look after that drunken brute;' he said to her.
'Can I get upstairs?'

'What do I care whether you can or not!' the woman shrieked. 'My
God! And all them new chairs as I bought—!'

He heard no more, but bounded over a confusion of obstacles, and
in a moment was on the landing of the first storey. Here he
encountered a man who had not lost his head, a stalwart mechanic
engaged in slipping clothes on to two little children.

'If somebody don't drag that fellow Briggs down he'll be dead,'
observed the man. 'He's layin' outside his door. I pulled him out,
but I can't do no more for him.'

Smoke grew thick on the staircase. Burning was as yet confined
to that front room on the second floor tenanted by Briggs the
disastrous, but in all likelihood the ceiling was ablaze, and if so
it would be all but impossible for Biffen to gain his own chamber,
which was at the back on the floor above. No one was making an
attempt to extinguish the fire; personal safety and the rescue of
their possessions alone occupied the thoughts of such people as
were still in the house. Desperate with the dread of losing his
manuscript, his toil, his one hope, the realist scarcely stayed to
listen to a warning that the fumes were impassable; with head bent
he rushed up to the next landing. There lay Briggs, perchance
already stifled, and through the open door Biffen had a horrible
vision of furnace fury. To go yet higher would have been madness
but for one encouragement: he knew that on his own storey was a
ladder giving access to a trap-door, by which he might issue on to
the roof, whence escape to the adjacent houses would be
practicable. Again a leap forward!

In fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent
of the stairs to the moment when, all but fainting, he thrust the
key into his door and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he was
on his knees, and had begun to suffer from a sense of failing
power, a sick whirling of the brain, a terror of hideous death. His
manuscript was on the table, where he had left it after regarding
and handling it with joyful self-congratulation; though it was
pitch dark in the room, he could at once lay his hand on the heap
of paper. Now he had it; now it was jammed tight under his left
arm; now he was out again on the landing, in smoke more deadly than
ever.

He said to himself: 'If I cannot instantly break out by the
trap-door it's all over with me.' That the exit would open to a
vigorous thrust he knew, having amused himself not long ago by
going on to the roof. He touched the ladder, sprang upwards, and
felt the trap above him. But he could not push it back. 'I'm a dead
man,' flashed across his mind, 'and all for the sake of "Mr Bailey,
Grocer."' A frenzied effort, the last of which his muscles were
capable, and the door yielded. His head was now through the
aperture, and though the smoke swept up about him, that gasp of
cold air gave him strength to throw himself on the flat portion of
the roof that he had reached.

So for a minute or two he lay. Then he was able to stand, to
survey his position, and to walk along by the parapet. He looked
down upon the surging and shouting crowd in Clipstone Street, but
could see it only at intervals, owing to the smoke that rolled from
the front windows below him.

What he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was
divided from those on either hand by a stack of chimneys; to get
round the end of these stacks was impossible, or at all events too
dangerous a feat unless it were the last resource, but by climbing
to the apex of the slates he would be able to reach the
chimney-pots, to drag himself up to them, and somehow to tumble
over on to the safer side. To this undertaking he forthwith
addressed himself. Without difficulty he reached the ridge;
standing on it he found that only by stretching his arm to the
utmost could he grip the top of a chimney-pot. Had he the strength
necessary to raise himself by such a hold? And suppose the pot
broke?

His life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke
warned him that in a few minutes the uppermost storey might be in
flames. He took off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of
action; the manuscript, now an encumbrance, must precede him over
the chimney-stack, and there was only one way of effecting that.
With care he stowed the papers into the pockets of the coat; then
he rolled the garment together, tied it up in its own sleeves, took
a deliberate aim—and the bundle was for the present in safety.

Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched
the rim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold
was firm enough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such
work, even when death would be the penalty of failure. Too long he
had lived on insufficient food and sat over the debilitating desk.
He swung this way and that, trying to throw one of his knees as
high as the top of the brickwork, but there was no chance of his
succeeding. Dropping on to the slates, he sat there in
perturbation.

He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand
by the parapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled
with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person
either in the yards behind or at the back windows of other houses.
The night was so obscure that he could not hope to be seen; voice
alone must be depended upon, and there was no certainty that it
would be heard far enough. Though he stood in his shirt-sleeves in
a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him; his face was beaded
with perspiration drawn forth by his futile struggle to climb. He
let himself slide down the rear slope, and, holding by the end of
the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. At the same instant a
face appeared to him—that of a man who was trying to obtain a
glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrusting out
his head beyond the block of chimneys.

'Hollo!' cried the stranger. 'What are you doing there?'

'Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your
roof.'

'By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are
you the—as upset his lamp an' fired the bloomin' 'ouse?'

'Not I! He's lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time.'

'By God! I wouldn't have helped you if you'd been him. How are
you coming round? Blest if I see! You'll break your bloomin' neck
if you try this corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys; wait
till I get a ladder.'

'And a rope,' shouted Biffen.

The man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half
an hour; he felt, or imagined he felt, the slates getting hot
beneath him, and the smoke was again catching his breath. But at
length there was a shout from the top of the chimney-stack. The
rescuer had seated himself on one of the pots, and was about to
lower on Biffen's side a ladder which had enabled him to ascend
from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung very carefully on
the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a
footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, and both
men descended in safety.

'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first
question. 'I threw mine over.'

'What did you do that for?'

'There are some valuable papers in the pockets.'

They searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coat
discoverable.

'You must have pitched it into the street,' said the man.

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from
destruction in lament for the loss of his manuscript. He would have
pursued the fruitless search, but his companion, who feared that
the fire might spread to adjoining houses, insisted on his passing
through the trap-door and descending the stairs.'If the coat fell
into the street,' Biffen said, when they were down on the ground
floor, 'of course it's lost; it would be stolen at once. But may
not it have fallen into your back yard?'

He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who
stared at him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had
fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion
prompted someone to run into the yard, with the result that a muddy
bundle was brought in and exhibited to him.

'Is this your coat, Mister?'

'Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in the
pockets.'

He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that 'Mr Bailey' was
safe, and finally put it on.

'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink
of water?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with
exhaustion.

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and
for half an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him,
Biffen sat recovering his strength. By that time the firemen were
hard at work, but one floor of the burning house had already fallen
through, and it was probable that nothing but the shell would be
saved. After giving a full account of himself to the people among
whom he had come, Harold declared his intention of departing; his
need of repose was imperative, and he could not hope for it in this
proximity to the fire. As he had no money, his only course was to
inquire for a room at some house in the immediate neighbourhood,
where the people would receive him in a charitable spirit.

With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was
thinner, and came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the
house-doors were open, and he made several applications for
hospitality, but either his story was doubted or his grimy
appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again
his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to a
policeman.

'Surely you can tell,' he protested, after explaining his
position, 'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall have money
to-morrow. If no one will take me in you must haul me on some
charge to the police-station; I shall have to lie down on the
pavement in a minute.'

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a
threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations
which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of
an underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to
rent for a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far
as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure
cleanse himself. This operation rapidly performed, the hapless
author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep.

When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he
discovered that his host kept an oil-shop.

'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically.

'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I
managed to save. All my books burnt!'