the great city was sound asleep. it was the deadest hour of the night, if we may apply that term to three o’clock in the morning, the hour at which most people have sought and found their pillows. late revellers had ceased to shout and sing, early risers had yet a good hour of rest before them, if not more. of course there were many wakeful sick folk—ah! how many in that mighty hive called london! but these did not disturb the profound quiet that had descended on the city: only a few weak but steady lights in windows here and there told of their existence.

among the sleepless, on that calm dark night, there was one man to whom we draw attention. his bronzed cheeks and tall muscular frame told that he was not one of the wakeful sick, neither was he a sick-nurse, to judge from things around him. he sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, gazing into the fire and meditating—perhaps building castles in the flames. his eyebrows were very bushy and his looks stern, but there was a play of gentle, kindly feeling round his mouth. he was one of a gallant band of picked men whose duty it is to do battle with the flames, a member of the london fire-brigade. two other men like himself lay on two little iron beds sound asleep with their clothes on. there was this difference between them, however, that the wakeful man wore brass epaulettes on his shoulders. brass helmets and axes hung round the room. a row of boots hung in a rack, a little telegraph instrument stood on a table near a map of london, and a small but sociable clock ticked on the wall.

that clock had quite a lively, cheerful tick. it seemed to talk to the fireman with the bushy brows until he smiled and looked at it.

“tic—tic—tic!” said the man, “how low and gentle your voice seems to-night. everything is so still and quiet, that you appear to be only whispering the flight of time.”

“tic—tic—tic,” replied the clock.

but the fireman heard no more, for just then a faint, far-distant sound broke upon his ear. it drew near, like a rushing wind. then like the noise of hurrying feet. the man rose and nudged one of the sleepers, who sat up and listened, after which he got up quickly, reached down his helmet, and awoke his companion, while the first fireman went to the station door. some one ran against it with fearful violence as he laid his hand on the lock, and the alarm-bell rang a tremendous peal as he threw it open.

“fire!” yelled a man who seemed all eyes and hair.

“just so; where is it?” replied the fireman, calmly glancing at the clock.

“fire!” again yelled the man of eyes and hair, who was for the moment mad with excitement.

“you’ve said that twice; where is it?” said the fireman, seizing the man by his arm, while the two men, who had been asleep, slipped out like fleet but quiet ghosts. one called up the sleeping firemen, the other got out two horses which stood ready harnessed in their stalls.

the fireman’s grasp sobered the madman. a street was named. the outbreak of the fire was instantly telegraphed to head-quarters, and thence to other stations concerned. round came the horses; in flowed the roused firemen, buttoning their garments as they ran each to his own peg for helmet and axe. at the same time two or three hauled out the steam fire-engine and yoked the horses. three minutes from the first shout of fire had barely elapsed when the whip cracked, eight or ten helmeted men sprang to their seats, the steeds bounded away and tore along the no longer quiet streets, leaving a trail of sparks behind them.

haste! haste! was the one idea. one minute saved may be a matter of life or death in cases of fire.

constant training, stern drill, made every man act like a calm, cool, collected thunderbolt. no fuss, but tremendous energy. no noise, but now and then a deep bass roar when any vehicle chanced to get in the way, and a quiet smile when the danger was passed.

thus they rushed along, like a fierce fiery monster, until they reached a square in the great city which was bright as with the sun at noon-day. a mansion was blazing from cellars to attics!

our engine was soon at work. other engines, whose stations lay nearer to the scene of action, were already pumping volumes of water into the flames. a strong force of police kept back the vast crowd, so as to let the firemen do their work undisturbed. it was deadly work they had to do! not only were flames spouting from every window, but masses of brickwork and blazing beams were falling in various places, rendering the service full of danger. a london crowd is usually well-behaved, but there are sometimes a few forward geese in it who think they can do things better than other people. one such, a huge man with a foreign accent, became excited, shouted, “oh! vy don’t you put ’im hout?” broke through the crowd, and rushed among the firemen.

our friend with the brass epaulettes and bushy eyebrows chanced to pass at the moment.

“vy you not put more vatter on ’im?” shouted the foreigner.

the stern countenance of the fireman relaxed, and a humorous smile lit up his countenance for one instant; but he took no other notice of the foreigner, who was quickly collared by two policemen as strong as himself, and thrust back into the crowd, where he was received with laughter, and presented with much good advice. one little boy in particular recommended him seriously to go home and ask his mamma to put him to bed—a remark which was received with great delight by the bystanders.

but there was not much laughter; for the fire was very terrible, and there was a report that some of the inmates had not been rescued by the fire-escape men.

meanwhile, our fireman with the epaulettes, who was foreman of that district, went about like a general in action, watching the flames sternly,—giving a quiet order to one, indicating a point of vantage to another, giving a helping hand here and there with the hose, answering a quick question promptly, and doing his utmost to dispose his force in such a way as to quell the raging fire. all this time he moved about among smoke and flames and falling materials as if he bore a charmed life—which, indeed, he did: for, as he afterwards said himself, the hand of god shielded him, and nothing on earth could kill him till his work on earth was done; and nothing on earth could save him when his time to die should come. this sentiment was, partly at least, the secret of the fireman’s cool courage in the midst of danger.

but the enemy was very strong that night, and the brigade could make no impression whatever on the burning house, the inside of which glowed like a smelting furnace.

“try the drawing-room window, jim, wi’ the fire-escape,” said our foreman to one of his men.

he helped jim to push the huge ladder on wheels to the window mentioned, and placed it in position. while jim ran for a nozzle and hose, there was a great cry from the crowd. a woman had got out on the ledge of an attic window, and knelt there shrieking and waving her arms, while the smoke curled round her, and the flames leapt up at her. she was high above the head of the escape; but there were fly-ladders which could be raised above that. these were instantly hoisted, and our foreman sprang up to the rescue.

the danger of the attempt lay in this—that, though the lower and upper parts of the escape were comparatively free from smoke, the middle was shrouded with a dense mass, through which now and then a lurid red flame burst. but our hero thought only of the woman. in a second or two he had disappeared in the smoke.

two of the firemen stood below holding a nozzle of the hose and directing it on a particular spot. they did not dare to move from their post, but they could see by a glance upwards what was going on.

“fred,” said one to the other in a low voice, “he’ll save her, or there’ll be a man less in the brigade to-night. he never does anything by halves. whatever he undertakes he does well. depend on’t, that harry thorogood will save that woman if she can be saved at all.”

as he spoke harry was seen emerging above the smoke, but when he reached the top of the highest ladder he was fully six feet below the spot where the woman knelt.

“come! girl, come!” he shouted, and held out his arms.

the terrified creature hesitated. she was afraid. she doubted the strength of the escape—the power of the man.

“come! come!” again he shouted.

she obeyed, but came against the fireman with such force that the round of the ladder on which he stood gave way, and both were seen to go crashing downwards, while something like a mighty groan or cry rose from the multitude below. it was changed, however, into a wild cheer when harry was seen to have caught the head of the escape, and arrested his fall, with one powerful hand, while, with the other, he still grasped the woman.

“god favours them,” said a voice in the crowd, as a gust of wind for a few seconds drove smoke and flames aside.

our bold fireman seized the opportunity, got the woman into the shoot, or canvas bag under the lowest ladder, and slid with her in safety to the ground.

the pen may describe, but it cannot convey a just idea of the thrilling cheers that greeted the rescued woman as she was received at the bottom of the escape, or the shouts of applause and congratulation that greeted harry thorogood as he emerged from the same, burnt, bleeding, scraped, scarred, and blackened, but not seriously injured, and with a pleasant smile upon his dirty face.