Chapter XXXIV
A Fire in Fairport
I had several times run to a fire with the boys, and knew that there was always great noise and excitement. There was a light in the house, so I knew that somebody was getting up. I don’t think—indeed I know, for they were good boys—that they ever wanted anybody to lose property, but they did enjoy seeing a blaze, and one of their greatest delights, when there hadn’t been a fire for some time, was to build a bonfire in the garden.
Jim and I ran around to the front of the house and waited. In a few minutes, someone came rattling at the front door, and I was sure it was Jack. But it was Mr. Morris, and without a word to us, he set off almost running toward the town. We followed after him, and as we hurried along other men ran out from the houses along the streets, and either joined him; or dashed ahead. They seemed to have dressed in a hurry, and were thrusting their arms in their coats, and buttoning themselves up as they went. Some of them had hats and some of them had none, and they all had their faces toward the great red light that got brighter and brighter ahead of us.
“Where’s the fire?” they shouted to each other. “Don’t know—afraid it’s the hotel, or the town hall—hope not. It’s such a blaze. Hope not. How’s the water supply now? Bad time for a fire.”
It was the hotel. We saw that as soon as we got on to the main street. There were people all about, and a great noise and confusion, and smoke and blackness; and up above, bright tongues of flame were leaping against the sky. Jim and I kept close to Mr. Morris’s heels, as he pushed his way among the crowd. When we got nearer the burning building, we saw men carrying ladders and axes, and others were shouting directions, and rushing out of the hotel, carrying boxes and bundles and furniture in their arms. From the windows above came a steady stream of articles, thrown among the crowd. A mirror struck Mr. Morris on the arm, and a whole package of clothes fell on his head and almost smothered him; but he brushed them aside and scarcely noticed them.
There was something the matter with Mr. Morris I knew by the worried sound of his voice when he spoke to anyone. I could not see his face, though it was as light as day about us, for we had got jammed in the crowd, and if I had not kept between his feet, I should have been trodden to death. Jim, being larger than I was, had got separated from us.
Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, “Is every one out of the hotel?” A voice shouted back, “I’m going up to see.”
“It’s Jim Watson, the fireman,” cried someone near. “He’s risking his life to go into that pit of flame. Don’t go, Watson.” I don’t think that the brave fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant later the same voice said “He’s planting his ladder against the third story. He’s bound to go. He’ll not get any farther than the second, anyway.”
“Where are the Montagues?” shouted Mr. Morris. “Has any one seen the Montagues?”
“Mr. Morris! Mr. Morris!” said a frightened voice, and young Charlie Montague pressed through the people to us. “Where’s papa?”
“I don’t know. Where did you leave him?” said Mr. Morris, taking his hand and drawing him closer to him. “I was sleeping in his room,” said the boy, “and a man knocked at the door and said, ‘Hotel on fire. Five minutes to dress and get out,’ and papa told me to put on my clothes and go downstairs, and he ran up to mamma.”
“Where was she?” asked Mr. Morris, quickly.
“On the fourth flat. She and her maid Blanche were up there. You know, mamma hasn’t been well and couldn’t sleep, and our room was so noisy that she moved upstairs where it was quiet.” Mr. Morris gave a kind of groan. “Oh I’m so hot, and there’s such a dreadful noise,” said the little boy, bursting into tears, “and I want mamma.” Mr. Morris soothed him as best he could, and drew him a little to the edge of the crowd.
While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry. I could not see the person making it, but I knew it was the Italian’s voice. He was screaming, in broken English that the fire was spreading to the stables, and his animals would be burned. Would no one help him to get his animals out? There was a great deal of confused language. Some voices shouted, “Look after the people first. Let the animals go.” And others said, “For shame. Get the horses out.” But no one seemed to do anything, for the Italian went on crying for help. I heard a number of people who were standing near us say that it had just been found out that several persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out. They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking for help. Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows, for smoke was pouring from them.
The air was very hot and heavy and I didn’t wonder that Charlie Montague felt ill. He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris hadn’t taken him in his arms, and carried him out of the crowd. He put him down on the brick sidewalk, and unfastened his little shirt, and left me to watch him, while he held his hands under a leak in a hose that was fastened to a hydrant near us. He got enough water to dash on Charlie’s face and breast, and then seeing that the boy was reviving, he sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee. Charlie lay in his arms and moaned. He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough usage as the Morris boys could.
Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he shuddered whenever there was a cry from the burning building. “Poor souls—God help them. Oh, this is awful,” he said; and then he turned his eyes from the great sheets of flame and strained the little boy to his breast. At last there were wild shrieks that I knew came from no human throats. The fire must have reached the horses. Mr. Morris sprang up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he could be of no use. There were hundreds of men standing about, but the fire had spread so rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it that there was very little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the poor animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the tricks that the Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my paws. They would throw a piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I would crush it with my forepaws; and if the blaze was too large for that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it and jump on it.
I left Mr. Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to the back of the hotel. It was not burned as much here as in the front, and in the houses all around, people were out on their roofs with wet blankets, and some were standing at the window watching the fire, or packing up their belongings ready to move if it should spread to them. There was a narrow lane running up a short distance toward the hotel, and I started to go up this, when in front of me I heard such a wailing, piercing noise, that it made me shudder and stand still. The Italian’s animals were going to be burned up and they were calling to their master to come and get them out. Their voices sounded like the voices of children in mortal pain. I could not stand it. I was seized with such an awful horror of the fire that I turned and ran, feeling so thankful that I was not in it. As I got into the street I stumbled over something. It was a large bird a parrot, and at first I thought it was Bella. Then I remembered hearing Jack say that the Italian had a parrot. It was not dead, but seemed stupid with the smoke. I seized it in my mouth, and ran and laid it at Mr. Morris’s feet. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, and laid it beside him.
I sat, and trembled, and did not leave him again. I shall never forget that dreadful night. It seemed as if we were there for hours, but in reality it was only a short time. The hotel soon got to be all red flames, and there was very little smoke. The inside of the budding had burned away, and nothing more could be gotten out. The firemen and all the people drew back, and there was no noise. Everybody stood gazing silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr. Morris, and looking at him, I saw that
it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish brown hair. Now his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the front of his head, and his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr. Morris sprang up when he saw him, and said “Where is your wife?”
The gentleman did not say a word, but pointed to the burning building. “Impossible!” cried Mr. Morris. “Is there no mistake? Your beautiful young wife, Montague. Can it be so?” Mr. Morris was trembling from head to foot.
“It is true,” said Mr. Montague, quietly. “Give me the boy.” Charlie had fainted again and his father took him in his arms, and turned away.
“Montague!” cried Mr. Morris, “my heart is sore for you. Can I do nothing?”
“No, thank you,” said the gentleman, without turning around; but there was more anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris’s, and though I am only a dog, I knew that his heart was breaking.
Chapter XXXV
Billy and the Italian
Mr. Morris stayed no longer. He followed Mr. Montague along the sidewalk a little way, and then exchanged a few hurried words with some men who were standing near, and hastened home through streets that seemed dark and dull after the splendor of the fire. Though it was still the middle of the night, Mrs. Morris was up and dressed and waiting for him. She opened the hall door with one hand and held a candle in the other. I felt frightened and miserable, and didn’t want to leave Mr. Morris, so I crept in after him.
“Don’t make a noise,” said Mrs. Morris. “Laura and the boys are sleeping, and I thought it better not to wake them. It has been a terrible fire, hasn’t it? Was it the hotel?” Mr. Morris threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“Speak to me, William!” said Mrs. Morris, in a startled tone. “You are not hurt, are you?” and she put her candle on the table and came and sat down beside him.
He dropped his hands from his face, and tears were running down his cheeks. “Ten lives lost,” he said; “among them Mrs. Montague.”
Mrs. Morris looked horrified, and gave a little cry, “William, it can’t be so!”
It seemed as if Mr. Morris could not sit still. He got up and walked to and fro on the floor. “It was an awful scene, Margaret. I never wish to look upon the like again. Do you remember how I protested against the building of that deathtrap. Look at the wide, open streets around it, and yet they persisted in running it up to the sky. God will require an account of those deaths at the hands of the men who put up that building. It is terrible this disregard of human lives. To think of that delicate woman and her death agony.” He threw himself in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“Where was she? How did it happen? Was her husband saved, and Charlie?” said Mrs. Morris, in a broken voice.
“Yes; Charlie and Mr. Montague are safe. Charlie will recover from it. Montague’s life is done. You know his love for his wife. Oh, Margaret! when will men cease to be fools? What does the Lord think of them when they say, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ And the other poor creatures burned to death—their lives are as precious in his sight as Mrs. Montague’s.”
Mr. Morris looked so weak and ill that Mrs. Morris, like a sensible woman, questioned him no further, but made a fire and got him some hot tea. Then she made him lie down on the sofa, and she sat by him till daybreak, when she persuaded him to go to bed. I followed her about, and kept touching her dress with my nose. It seemed so good to me to have this pleasant home after all the misery I had seen that night. Once she stopped and took my head between her hands, “Dear old Joe,” she said, tearfully, “this is a suffering world. It’s well there’s a better one beyond it.”
In the morning the boys went downtown before breakfast and learned all about the fire. It started in the top story of the hotel, in the room of some fast young men, who were sitting up late playing cards. They had smuggled wine into their room and had been drinking till they were stupid. One of them upset the lamp, and when the flames began to spread so that they could not extinguish them, instead of rousing someone near them, they rushed downstairs to get someone there to come up and help them put out the fire. When they returned with some of the hotel people, they found that the flames had spread from their room, which was in an “L” at the back of the house, to the front part, where Mrs. Montague’s room was, and where the housemaids belonging to the hotel slept. By this time Mr. Montague had gotten upstairs, but he found the passageway to his wife’s room so full of flames and smoke, that, though he tried again and again to force his way through, he could not. He disappeared for a time, then he came to Mr. Morris and got his boy, and took him to some rooms over his bank, and shut himself up with him.
For some days he would let no one in; then he came out with the look of an old man on his face, and his hair as white as snow, and went out to his beautiful house in the outskirts of the town.
Nearly all the horses belonging to the hotel were burned. A few were gotten out by having blankets put over their heads, but the most of them were so terrified that they would not stir.
The Morris boys said that they found the old Italian sitting on an empty box, looking at the smoking ruins of the hotel. His head was hanging on his breast, and his eyes were full of tears. His ponies were burned up, he said, and the gander, and the monkeys, and the goat, and his wonderful performing dogs. He had only his birds left, and he was a ruined man. He had toiled all his life to get this troupe of trained animals together, and now they were swept from him. It was cruel and wicked, and he wished he could die. The canaries, and pigeons, and doves, the hotel people had allowed him to take to his room, and they were safe. The parrot was lost—an educated parrot that could answer forty questions, and, among other things, could take a watch and tell the time of day.
Jack Morris told him that they had it safe at home, and that it was very much alive, quarrelling furiously with his parrot Bella. The old man’s face brightened at this, and then Jack and Carl, finding that he had had no breakfast, went off to a restaurant nearby, and got him some steak and coffee. The Italian was very grateful, and as he ate, Jack said the tears ran into his coffee cap. He told them how much he loved his animals, and how it “made ze heart bitter to hear zem crying him to deliver zem from ze raging fire.”
The boys came home, and got their breakfast and went to school. Miss Laura did not go out She sat all day with a very quiet, pained face and could neither read nor sew, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris were just as unsettled. They talked about the fire in low tones, and I could see that they felt more sad about Mrs. Montague’s death than if she had died in an ordinary way. Her dear little canary Barry, died with her. She would never be separated from him, and his cage had been taken up to the top of the hotel with her. He probably died an easier death than his poor mistress. Charley’s dog escaped, but was so frightened that he ran out to their house, outside the town.
At tea time, Mr. Morris went downtown to see that the Italian got a comfortable place for the night. When he came back, he said that he had found out that the Italian was by no means so old a man as he looked and that he had talked to him about raising a sum of money for him among the Fairport people, till he had become quite cheerful, and said that if Mr. Morris would do that, he would try to gather another troupe of animals together and train them.
“Now, what can we do for the Italian?” asked Mrs. Morris. “We can’t give him much money, but we might let him have one or two of our pets. There’s Billy, he’s a bright, little dog, and not two years old yet. He could teach him anything.”
There was a blank silence among the Morris children. Billy was such a gentle, lovable, little dog, that he was a favorite with everyone in the house. “I suppose we ought to do it,” said Miss Laura, at last; “but how can we
give him up?”
There was a good deal of discussion, but the end of it was that Billy was given to the Italian. He came up to get him, and was very grateful, and made a great many bows, holding his hat in his hand. Billy took to him at once, and the Italian spoke so kindly to him, that we knew he would have a good master. Mr. Morris got quite a large sum of money for him, and when he handed it to him, the poor man was so pleased that he kissed his hand, and promised to send frequent word as to Billy’s progress and welfare.
Chapter XXXVI
Dandy the Tramp
About a week after Billy left us, the Morris family, much to its surprise, became the owner of a new dog.
He walked into the house one cold, wintry afternoon and lay calmly down by the fire. He was a brindled bull terrier, and he had on a silver-plated collar with “Dandy” engraved on it. He lay all the evening by the fire, and when any of the family spoke to him, he wagged his tail, and looked pleased. I growled a little at him at first, but he never cared a bit, and just dozed off to sleep, so I soon stopped.
He was such a well-bred dog, that the Morrises were afraid that someone had lost him. They made some inquiries the next day, and found that he belonged to a New York gentleman who had come to Fairport in the summer in a yacht. This dog did not like the yacht. He came ashore in a boat whenever he got a chance, and if he could not come in a boat, he would swim. He was a tramp, his master said, and he wouldn’t stay long in any place. The Morrises were so amused with his impudence, that they did not send him away, but said every day, “Surely he will be gone tomorrow.”
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