"It was in the basement of a bookbinder's in Littleton Street," said Frank, lighting a cigar. "We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting there found three engines at work. Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to go down into the basement. It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that I couldn't see half-an-inch before my nose. We broke through the windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water. The engines had been at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it, an' before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four feet deep. I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst. He rose gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out. It was in trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain. You've heard how he came by the other mishap?" "Yes, it was gallopin' down Ludgate Hill, wasn't it?" "Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and before he got up it was on him. By good fortune it did not go over him; it only bruised his back; but it's worse than we thought it would be, I fear." "Ah! one never knows," said Forest gravely. "There's one man Jackson, now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him. We all thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not five minutes after he steps out of a window all right--only a scratch or two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his ankle so bad that he's bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the boy." "Ah! it was worth the sprain," said Frank. "It was," responded Forest. "Well, good-night," said Frank, resuming his walk. Samuel Forest responded "good-night," and then, getting into his box, sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two, trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a corner, began to peruse it. Sam was of a literary turn of mind. He read a great deal during his lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box. His helmet hung on a peg beside him. His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small cap covered his head. Looking at him in his snug and brightly illuminated little apartment, he appeared--by contrast with the surrounding darkness--inexpressibly comfortable. Nevertheless, Sam Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a biting December night.