The H.G. Wells Reader (92 page)

One was Mr. Polly, with is hair wildly disordered, his face covered with black smudges and streaked with perspiration, and his trouser legs scorched and blackened; the other was an elderly lady, quietly but becomingly dressed in black, with small white frills at her neck and wrists and a Sunday cap of ecru lace enlivened with a black velvet bow. Her hair was brushed back from her wrinkled brow and plastered down tightly, meeting in a small knob behind; her wrinkled mouth bore that expression of supreme resolution common with the toothless aged. She was shaky, not with fear, but with the vibrations natural to her years, and she spoke with the slow quavering firmness of the very aged.

“I don't mind scrambling,” she said with piping inflexibility, “but I can't jump and I
wunt
jump.”

“Scramble, old lady, then—scramble!” said Mr. Polly, pulling her arm. “It's one up and two down on these blessed tiles.”

“It's not what I'm used to,” she said.

“Stick to it!” said Mr. Polly. “Live and learn,” and got to the ridge and grasped at her arm to pull her after him.

“I can't jump, mind ye,” she repeated, pressing her lips together. “And old ladies like me mustn't be hurried.”

“Well, let's get as high as possible anyhow!” said Mr. Polly, urging her gently upward. “Shinning up a water-spout in your line? Near as you'll get to Heaven.”

“I
can't
jump,” she said. “I can do anything but jump.”

“Hold on!” said Mr. Polly, “while I give you a boost. That's—wonderful.”

“So long as it isn't jumping. . . .”

The old lady grasped the parapet above, and there was a moment of intense struggle.

“Urup!” said Mr. Polly. “hold on! Gollys! where's she gone to? . . .”

Then an ill-mended, wavering, yet very reassuring spring side boot appeared for an instant.

“Thought perhaps there wasn't any roof there!” he explained, scrambling up over the parapet beside her.

“I've never been out on a roof before, “said the old lady. “I'm all disconnected. It's very bumpy. Especially that last bit. Can't we sit here for a bit and rest? I'm not the girl I use to be.”

“You sit here ten minutes, “shouted Mr. Polly, “and you'll pop like a roast chestnut. Don't understand me?
Roast chestnut
! ROAST CHESTNUT! POP! There ought to be a limit to deafness. Come on round to the front and see if we can find an attic window. Look at this smoke!”

“Nasty!” said the old lady, her eyes following his gesture, puckering her face into an expression of great distaste.

“Come on!”

“Can't hear a word you say.”

He pulled her arm. “Come on!”

She paused for a moment to relieve herself of a series of entirely unexpected chuckles. “Sich goings on!” she said, “I never did! Where's he going now?” and came along behind the parapet to the front of the drapery establishment.

Below, the street was now fully alive to their presence, and encouraged the appearance of their heads by shouts and cheers. A sort of free fight was going on round the fire escape, order represented by Mr. Boomer and the very young policeman, and disorder by some partially intoxicated volunteers with views of their own about the manipulation of the apparatus. Two or three lengths of Mr. Rusper's garden hose appeared to have twined themselves round the ladder. Mr. Polly watched the struggle with a certain impatience, and glanced ever and again over his shoulder at the increasing volume of smoke and steam that was pouring up from the burning fire station. He decided to break an attic window and get in, and so try and get down through the shop. He found himself in a little bedroom, and returned to fetch his charge. For some time he could not make her understand his purpose.

“Got to come at once!” he shouted.

“I hain't 'ad sich a time for years!” said the old lady.

“We'll have to get down through the house!”

“Can't do no jumpin',” said the old lady. “No!”

She yielded reluctantly to his grasp.

She stared over the parapet. “Runnin' and scurrying about like black beetles in a kitchin,” she said.

“We've got to hurry.”

“Mr. Rumbold 'e's a very Quiet man. 'E likes everything Quiet. He'll be surprised to see me 'ere! Why!—there 'e is!” She fumbled in her garments mysteriously and at last produced a wrinkled pocket handkerchief and began to wave it.

“Oh, come ON!” cried Mr. Polly, and seized her.

He got her into the attic, but the staircase, he found, was full of suffocating smoke, and he dared not venture below the next floor. He took her into a long dormitory, shut the door on those pungent and pervasive fumes, and opened the window to discover the fire escape was now against the house, and all Fishbourne boiling with excitement as on immensely helmeted and active and resolute little figure ascended. In another moment the rescuer stared over the windowsill, heroic, but just a trifle self-conscious and grotesque.

“Lawks a mussy!” said the old lady. “Wonders and Wonders! Why! it's Mr. Gambell! 'Iding 'is 'ed in that thing! I
never
did!”

“Can we get her out?” said Mr. Gambell. “There's not much time.”

“He might git stuck in it.”

“
You'll
get stuck in it,” said Mr. Polly, “come along!”

“Not for jumpin' I don't,” said the old lady, understanding his gestures rather than his words. “Not a bit of it. I bain't no good at jumping and I
wunt
.”

They urged her gently but firmly towards the window.

“You lemme do it my own way,” said the old lady at the sill. . . .

“I could do it better if 'e'd take it off.”

“Oh!
carm
on!”

“It's wuss than Carter's stile,” she said, “before they mended it. With a cow a-looking at you.”

Mr. Gambell hovered protectingly below. Mr. Polly steered her aged limbs from above. An anxious crowd below babbled advice and did its best to upset the fire escape. Within, streamers of black smoke were pouring up through the cracks in the floor. For some seconds the world waited while the old lady gave herself up to reckless mirth again. “Sich times!” she said, and “
Poor
Rumbold!”

Slowly they descended, and Mr. Polly remained at the post of danger steadying the long ladder until the old lady was in safety below and sheltered by Mr. Rumbold (who was in tears) and the young policeman from the urgent congratulations of the crowd. The crowd was full of an impotent passion to participate. Those nearest wanted to shake her hand, those remoter cheered.

“The fust fire I was ever in and likely to be my last. It's a scurryin', 'urryin' business, but I'm real glad I haven't missed it,” said the old lady as she was borne rather than led towards the refuge of the Temperance Hotel.

Also she was heard to remark” “ 'E was saying something about 'ot chestnuts. I 'aven't 'ad no 'ot chestnuts.”

Then the crowd became aware of Mr. Polly awkwardly negotiating the top rungs of the fire escape. “ 'Ere 'e comes!” cried a voice, and Mr. Polly descended into the world again out of the conflagration he had lit to be his funeral pyre, moist, excited, and tremendously alive, amidst a tempest of applause. As he got lower and lower the crowd howled like a pack of dogs at him. Impatient men unable to wait for him seized and shook his descending boots, and so brought him to earth with a run. He was rescued with difficulty from an enthusiast who wished to slake at his own expense and to his own accompaniment a thirst altogether heroic. He was hauled into the Temperance Hotel and flung like a sack, breathless and helpless, into the tear-wet embrace of Miriam.

With the dusk and the arrival of some county constabulary, and first one and presently two other fire engines from Port Burdock and Hampstead-on-Sea, the local talent of Fishbourne found itself forced back into a secondary, less responsible and more observant role. I will not pursue the story of the fire to its ashes, nor will I do more than glance at the unfortunate Mr. Rusper, a modern Laocoon, vainly trying to retrieve his scattered hose amidst the tramplings and rushings of the Port Burdock experts.

In a small sitting-room of the Fishbourne Temperance Hotel a little group of Fishbourne tradesmen sat and conversed in fragments and anon went to the window and looked out upon the smoking desolation of their homes across the way, and anon sat down again. They and their families were the guests of old Lady Bargrave, who had displayed the utmost sympathy and interest in their misfortunes. She had taken several people into her own house at Everdean, had engaged the Temperance Hotel as a temporary refuge, and personally superintended the housing of Mantell and Throb-son's homeless assistants. The Temperance Hotel became and remained extremely noisy and congested, with people sitting about anywhere, conversing in fragments and totally unable to get themselves to bed. The manager was an old soldier, and following the best traditions of the service saw that everyone had hot cocoa. Hot cocoa seemed to be about everywhere, and it was no doubt very heartening and sustaining to everyone. When the manager detected anyone disposed to be drooping or pensive he exhorted that person at once to drink further hot cocoa and maintain a stout heart.

The hero of the occasion, the centre of interest, was Mr. Polly. For he had not only caused the fire by upsetting a lighted lamp, scorching his trousers and narrowly escaping death, as indeed he had now explained in detail about twenty times, but he had further thought at once of that amiable but helpless old lady next door, had shown the utmost decision in making his way to her over the yard wall of the Royal Fishbourne Hotel, and had rescued her with persistence and vigour in spite of the
levity natural to her years. Everyone thought well of him and was anxious to show it, more especially by shaking his hand painfully and repeatedly. Mr. Rumbold, breaking a silence of nearly fifteen years, thanked him profusely, said he had never understood him properly and declared he ought to have a medal. There seemed to be a widely diffused idea that Mr. Polly ought to have a medal. Hinks thought so. He declared, moreover, and with the utmost emphasis, that Mr. Polly had a crowded and richly decorated interior—or words to that effect. There was something apologetic in this persistence; it was as if he regretted past intimations that Mr. Polly was internally defective and hollow. He also said that Mr. Polly was a “white man,” albeit, as he developed it, with a liver of the deepest chromatic satisfactions.

Mr. Polly wandered centrally through it all, with his face washed and his hair carefully brushed and parted, looking modest and more than a little absent-minded, and wearing a pair of black dress trowsers belonging to the manager of the Temperance Hotel,—a larger man than himself in every way.

He drifted upstairs to his fellow-tradesmen, and stood for a time staring into the littered street, with its pools of water and extinguished gas lamps. His companions in misfortune resumed a fragmentary disconnected conversation. They touched now on one aspect of the disaster and now on another, and there were intervals of silence. More or less empty cocoa cups were distributed over the table, mantelshelf and piano, and in the middle of the table was a tin of biscuits, into which Mr. Rumbold, sitting round-shoulderedly, dipped ever and again in an absent-minded way, and munched like a distant shooting of coals. It added to the solemnity of the affair that nearly all of them were in their black Sunday clothes; little Clamp was particularly impressive and dignified in a wide open frock coat, a Gladstone-shaped paper collar, and a large white and blue tie. They felt that they were in the presence of a great disaster, the sort of disaster that gets into the papers, and is even illustrated by blurred photographs of the crumbling ruins. In the presence of that sort of disaster all honourable men are lugubrious and sententious.

And yet it is impossible to deny a certain element of elation. Not one of those excellent men but was already realising that a great door had opened, as it were, in the opaque fabric of destiny, that they were to get their money again that had seemed sunken for ever beyond any hope in the deeps of retail trade. Life was already in their imagination rising like a Phoenix from the flames.

“I suppose there'll be a public subscription,” said Mr. Clamp.

“Not for those who're insured,” said Mr. Wintershed.

“I was thinking of them assistants from Mantell and Throbson's. They just have lost nearly everything.”

“They'll be looked after all right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Never fear.”

Pause.

“
I'm
insured,” said Mr. Clamp, with unconcealed satisfaction. “Royal Salamander.”

“Same here,” said Mr. Wintershed.

“Mine's the Glasgow Sun,” Mr. Hinks remarked. “Very good company.”

“You insured, Mr. Polly?”

“He deserves to be,” said Rumbold.

“Ra-ther,” said Hinks. “Blowed if he don't. Hard lines it
would
be—if there wasn't something for him.”

“Commercial and General,” answered Mr. Polly over his shoulder, still staring out of the window. “Oh! I'm all right.”

The topic dropped for a time, though manifestly it continued to exercise their minds.

“It's cleared me out of a lot of old stock,” said Mr. Wintershed; “that's one good thing.”

The remark was felt to be in rather questionable taste, and still more so was the next comment.

“Rusper's a bit sick it didn't reach '
im
.”

Everyone looked uncomfortable, and no one was willing to point to the reason why Rusper should be a bit sick.

“Rusper's been playing a game of his own,” said Hinks. “Wonder what he thought he was up to! Sittin' in the middle of the road with a pair of tweezers he was, and about a yard of wire—mending somethin'. Wonder he warn't run over by the Port Burdock engine.”