He had not accomplished
his purpose when I heard a shout, and, looking up the street, saw Mr.
Wm. Freethy approaching at a brisk run. He is forty-three years old,
and his figure inclines to rotundity. The wind, still in the east,
combined with the velocity of his approach to hold his coat-tails in a
line steadily horizontal. In his right hand he carried a large slice
of his mother's home-made bread, spread with yellow plum jam; a
semicircular excision of the crumb made it plain that he had been
disturbed in his first mouthful. The crowd parted and he advanced to
the door; laid his slice of bread and jam upon the threshold; searched
in his fob pocket for the key; produced it; turned it in the lock;
picked up his bread and jam again; opened the door; took a bite; and
plunged into the choking clouds that immediately enveloped his person.
While the concourse waited, in absolute silence, the atmosphere of the
engine-house cleared as if by magic, and Mr. Wm. Freethy was visible
again in the converging rays of six bull's-eye lanterns held forward
by six members of the Fire Brigade.
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