New Grub Street - George Gissing (e book reader free TXT) 📗

to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person either in the yards behind or at the back windows of other houses. The night was so obscure that he could not hope to be seen; voice alone must be depended upon, and there was no certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though he stood in his shirtsleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him; his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futile struggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and, holding by the end of the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. At the same instant a face appeared to him⁠—that of a man who was trying to obtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrusting out his head beyond the block of chimneys.

“Hollo!” cried the stranger. “What are you doing there?”

“Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your roof.”

“By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are you the ⸻ as upset his lamp an’ fired the bloomin’ ’ouse?”

“Not I! He’s lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time.”

“By God! I wouldn’t have helped you if you’d been him. How are you coming round? Blest if I see! You’ll break your bloomin’ neck if you try this corner. You’ll have to come over the chimneys; wait till I get a ladder.”

“And a rope,” shouted Biffen.

The man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half an hour; he felt, or imagined he felt, the slates getting hot beneath him, and the smoke was again catching his breath. But at length there was a shout from the top of the chimney-stack. The rescuer had seated himself on one of the pots, and was about to lower on Biffen’s side a ladder which had enabled him to ascend from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung very carefully on the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, and both men descended in safety.

“Have you seen a coat lying about here?” was Biffen’s first question. “I threw mine over.”

“What did you do that for?”

“There are some valuable papers in the pockets.”

They searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coat discoverable.

“You must have pitched it into the street,” said the man.

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from destruction in lament for the loss of his manuscript. He would have pursued the fruitless search, but his companion, who feared that the fire might spread to adjoining houses, insisted on his passing through the trap-door and descending the stairs.“If the coat fell into the street,” Biffen said, when they were down on the ground floor, “of course it’s lost; it would be stolen at once. But may not it have fallen into your back yard?”

He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who stared at him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone to run into the yard, with the result that a muddy bundle was brought in and exhibited to him.

“Is this your coat, Mister?”

“Heaven be thanked! That’s it! There are valuable papers in the pockets.”

He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that Mr. Bailey was safe, and finally put it on.

“Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink of water?” he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with exhaustion.

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and for half an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him, Biffen sat recovering his strength. By that time the firemen were hard at work, but one floor of the burning house had already fallen through, and it was probable that nothing but the shell would be saved. After giving a full account of himself to the people among whom he had come, Harold declared his intention of departing; his need of repose was imperative, and he could not hope for it in this proximity to the fire. As he had no money, his only course was to inquire for a room at some house in the immediate neighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a charitable spirit.

With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was thinner, and came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house-doors were open, and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his story was doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to a policeman.

“Surely you can tell,” he protested, after explaining his position, “that I don’t want to cheat anybody. I shall have money tomorrow. If no one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to the police-station; I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute.”

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. This operation rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep.

When he went upstairs about nine o’clock in the morning he discovered that his host kept an oil-shop.

“Lost everything, have you?” asked the man sympathetically.

“Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to save. All my books burnt!”

Biffen shook his head dolorously.

“Your account-books!” cried the dealer in oil. “Dear, dear!⁠—and what might