The water-plugs have been drawn, and the gutters are all flooded. The gully-hole is covered—a dam-board arrests the stream and gives depth—the portable cistern is quickly filled—the suction-pipes of the engines, being placed in it, both of them are got into position. The flames have reached the back of the house; their points are just seen rising above the roof! A rush of people seize on the long pump-levers, all mad to work the engines. The foreman rapidly selects ten for each side—sets them to work—and then, one at a time, takes down their names in a book for the purpose, so that they may be paid a shilling an hour—those who choose to accept it. But a hundred volunteer to work—they don’t want the shilling—they want to pump. ‘Let _me_ pump!’ ‘_I’m_ the one to pump!’ ‘Do you want any more to pump?’ resound on all sides from men of all classes, while the crowd press forward, and can scarcely be got to leave room enough for the engines to be worked—and they would not, but for the man with the director-pipe, who soon makes a watery circle around him. The fortunate volunteers at the levers now begin to pump away with a fury that seems perfectly frantic. The Superintendent, who has had many a fine-engine disabled during the first five minutes of this popular furor, insists upon their ardour being restrained; and with no little difficulty succeeds in getting his pumping done a degree less madly. Who, that did not know them, would believe that these outrageous pumpers were the very same people who stood with lack-lustre eyes at some tedious operation in trade or workshop, all day long; or, who sat stolidly opposite each other in an omnibus, without a word to say, and seeming too dull for either thought or action? Look at them now! The wind still blows strongly from the blazing stables—the flames are rapidly eating their way through the house from the back! The two upper stories are already on fire. A figure appears at one of the windows, and makes signs. All the inmates had NOT been got out! An aged woman—a very old and faithful servant of the family—had lingered behind, vainly endeavouring to pack up some of her dear young mistress’s clothes and trinkets. A prolonged cry bursts from the crowd, followed with innumerable pieces of advice—bawled, hoarsely shouted, or rapidly screamed to the Superintendent, and the firemen directing the nozzle of the hose. ‘Point the nozzle up to the _window_!’ ‘Up to the _roof_ of that room!’ ‘_Smash_ the windows!’ ‘The _Fire-escape_, Mr. Braidwood!’ ‘Bring the ropes for her!—_throw up_ the ropes to her!’ ‘Don’t smash the windows; you’ll _cut_ her!’ ‘She’s gone to _jump out_ at the back!’ ‘She is lying on the _floor_!’ ‘She’s _suffocated_, Mr. Braidwood!’ ‘Send up the _water_, to bring her to her senses!’ ‘She’s burnt to _ashes_, Mr. Braidwood—I see her lying _all of a red tinder_!’