From The Pitch-House Out Over The Fjord. All Round The House It Was As
Light As Day. Long Tongues Of Flame Were Flying Far Away Over The
Fields, Shedding Their Glare Here And There On The Front Of A
Whitewashed House, While Up Above On The Level Ground It Was Still Dark,
Under The Shadow Of The Vessel. And Now A Glitter Was Seen, And A Rumble
Was Heard In The Direction Of The Town. The Fire Brigade Was On Its Way.
And From The Farmhouses Which Lay Near, Down Over The Fields, But
Chiefly In The Avenue Leading From The Town, People Were To Be Seen
Running, First Singly, Then Two Or Three, Then Several Together, Until
The Crowd In The Avenue Appeared Like A Close Black Mass, Dotted Here
And There With Red-And-White Specks. When Gabriel Got Down Again To The
House He Was At His Wits' Ends, And, Leaning Against The Garden Wall, He
Sobbed Aloud.
Some One Came Skirting Along The Wall; It Was The Schoolmaster, Aalbom.
He Recognized Gabriel, And Stopped. "Isn'T It What I Always Said?" Cried
He, Triumphantly. "You Are A Regular Laban, Standing Here Blubbering.
You Might At Any Rate Manage To Lend A Hand With The Water, You Lout!"
Gabriel Sprang Up, As If Seized With A Sudden Inspiration, Pushed The
Master Aside, And Dashed Down Towards The Building-Yard.
"An Ill-Mannered Cub," Muttered Aalbom, As He Continued His Way To Get A
Good Place From Which To See The Fire.
Rachel Was Naturally Most Anxious To Make Herself Useful, But There Was
Nothing For Her To Do. She Therefore Stood On The Steps In Front Of The
House, And Watched The Crowd Streaming Up From The Town, While The Fire
Threw Its Ever-Increasing Glare Down The Highroad, Which Was Now
Thronged With People. Suddenly She Heard A Voice She Recognized. "Out Of
The Way! Let The Engines Pass! Look Out There--The Engines! Out Of The
Way!" The Crowd Opened, And Out Of The Throng Came Two Rows Of Men,
Dragging The Red-Painted Fire-Engine By A Long Rope. Jacob Worse Was
Running In Front, Shouting And Giving His Orders. He Gave Her A Hurried
Greeting As He Passed, And Away Rumbled The Engine Towards The
Ship-Yard. It Struck Rachel That His Face Was The Only One That Showed
Any Feeling Of Sympathy Or Sorrow; All The Rest Appeared Indifferent,
And Some Showed, Openly Enough, That They Thought The Fire Glorious
Chapter 17 Pg 118
Sport. Rachel Turned Away And Went Into The House.
All This Time The Young Consul Was Standing At The Corner Window, On The
North Side Of The Small Sitting-Room. The Pitch-House Was Now Blazing
Inside; The Flames Came Bursting Out Of The Door, And Followed The Line
Of Melted Pitch Which Flowed Along The Ground. The Thick Wooden Walls
Were Glowing With The Heat, And He Could See The People Shrink Back When
They Got Too Near Them. The Wind Was Blowing So Strongly, That It Beat
Down The Smoke And Shrouded The Engines And Spectators From His View,
But Upon The Roof Of The Storehouse He Could See Uncle Richard, In
Company With Some Other Forms, Working Away With The Wet Sail. The
Storehouse Was Only A Few Yards Distant From The Pitch-House, And Was
Thus So Close Under The Stern Of The Ship That She Was As Good As Lost,
If The Fire Once Happened To Catch The Former Building.
The Consul Could See That They Had Got The Sail Drawn Over The Roof; But
At That Instant The Tiled Roof Of The Pitch-House Fell In, And The
Flames Suddenly Shot High Into The Air, And Were Borne By The Wind Right
Down On To The Storehouse. The _Attache_, And Those That Were With Him,
Had To Get Down From The Roof On The Other Side As Best They Might.
A Step Was Heard Running Up The Stairs And Through The Passage.
"Father! Father!" It Was Morten, Who Dashed In breathless And Dripping.
"Father, We Must Have Some Powder; The Storehouse Must Be Blown Up!"
"Nonsense!" Answered The Consul, Drily. "Why, It Is Right Under The Very
Stern Of The Ship."
"Well, I Don'T Know," Answered Morten, "But Something Must Be Done. I
Don'T See Much Good In Those Old Fire-Engines."
The Young Consul Drew Himself Up; He Seemed To Hear An Echo Of All The
Disagreements There Had Been Between Them. It Was The Old Story, The New
Against The Old, And He Answered Shortly And Coldly--
"I Am Still The Head Of The Firm. Go Back And Do Your Duty, As I
Directed."
Morten Turned And Left The Room With An Air Of Defiance. The Idea Of
Using Powder Had Taken His Fancy, Although It Was Not His Own. An
Engineer Had Been Standing Behind Morten With His Hands In His Pockets,
After The Manner Of Engineers, And Had Said, As Engineers Do Say, "If I
Had My Way, I'M Blest If I Wouldn'T Do Different To This."
"What Would You Do?" Asked Morten.
"Powder!" Answered The Engineer, Curtly, As Engineers Have A Habit Of
Answering.
It Was Hard For Morten To Give Up His Powder, And He Muttered Many Ugly
Oaths As He Went Down The Staircase.
When The Consul Again Looked Out Of The Window After Morten Had Gone, He
Involuntarily Seized The Damask Curtains Tightly In His Grasp, For The
Change Which Had Taken Place In These Few Minutes Was Only Too Apparent.
Chapter 17 Pg 119
The Wet Sail Had Already Turned Black, And In another Minute Was
Beginning To Shrivel; While The Whole Of One Side Of The Storehouse
Burst Into A Bright Yellow Flame, Which Came Streaming Down Over The
Roof, Flashing Amid The Thick Smoke, And Long Fiery Tongues Began To
Lick Underneath The Vessel.
The Consul Knew What There Was In The Building--Tow, Paint, Oil, Tar.
The Ship Was Hopelessly Lost; The Good Ship Of Which He Was Even More
Proud Than Any One Suspected.
After The First Feeling Of Despair, He Began To Calculate In His Head.
The Loss Was Heavy, Very Heavy. The Business Would Be Crippled For A
Long Time, And The Firm Would Receive An Ugly Blow.
And Yet It Was Not This Which Seemed To Crush The Determined Little Man,
Until It Almost Made His Knees Quiver. This Ship Was To Him More Than A
Mere Sum Of Money. It Was A Work He Had Undertaken In Honour Of "The
Old"
