Beautiful Joe [112]
fell on his head and almost smothered him;
but he brushed them aside and scarcely noticed them. There was something the
matter with Mr. Morris I knew by the worried sound of his voice when he spoke to
any one. I could not see his face, though it was as light as day about us, for
we had got jammed in the crowd, and if I had not kept between his feet, I should
have been trodden to death. Jim, being larger than I was, had got separated from
us.
Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, "Is every
one out of the hotel?" A voice shouted back, "I'm going up to see."
"It's Jim Watson, the fireman," cried some one near. "He's risking his life to
go into that pit of flame. Don't go, Watson." I don't think that the brave
fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant later the same voice
said "He's planting his ladder against the third story. He's bound to go. He'll
not get any farther than the second, anyway."
"Where are the Montagues?" shouted Mr. Morris. "Has any one seen the Montagues?"
"Mr. Morris! Mr. Morris!" said a frightened voice, and young Charlie Montague
pressed through the people to us. "Where's papa?"
"I don't know. Where did you leave him?" said Mr. Morris, taking his hand and
drawing him closer to him. "I was sleeping in his room," said the boy, "and a
man knocked at the door and said, 'Hotel on fire. Five minutes to dress and get
out,' and papa told me to put on my clothes and go downstairs, and he ran up to
mamma."
"Where was she?" asked Mr. Morris, quickly.
"On the fourth flat. She and her maid Blanche were up there. You know, mamma
hasn't been well and couldn't sleep, and our room was so noisy that she moved
upstairs where it was quiet." Mr. Morris gave a kind of groan. "Oh I'm so hot,
and there's such a dreadful noise," said the little boy, bursting into tears,
"and I want mamma." Mr. Morris soothed him as best he could, and drew him a
little to the edge of the crowd.
While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry. I could not see the person
making it, but I knew it was the Italian's voice. He was screaming, in broken
English that the fire was spreading to the stables, and his animals would be
burned. Would no one help him to get his animals out? There was a great deal of
confused language. Some voices shouted, "Look after the people first. Let the
animals go." And others said, "For shame. Get the horses out." But no one seemed
to do anything, for the Italian went on crying for help. I heard a number of
people who were standing near us say that it had just been found out that
several persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out.
They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking for
help. Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows, for smoke was
pouring from them.
The air was very hot and heavy and I didn't wonder that Charlie Montague felt
ill. He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris hadn't taken him in his
arms, and carried him out of the crowd. He put him down on the brick sidewalk,
and unfastened his little shirt, and left me to watch him, while he held his
hands under a leak in a hose that was fastened to a hydrant near us. He got
enough water to dash on Charlie's face and breast, and then seeing that the boy
was reviving, he sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee. Charlie lay
in his arms and moaned. He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough
usage as the Morris boys could.
Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he shuddered
whenever there was a cry from the burning building. "Poor souls God help them.
Oh, this is awful," he said; and then he turned his eyes from the great sheets
of flame and strained the little boy to his breast. At last there were wild
shrieks that I knew came from no human throats. The fire must have reached the
horses. Mr. Morris sprang up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he
could be of no use. There
but he brushed them aside and scarcely noticed them. There was something the
matter with Mr. Morris I knew by the worried sound of his voice when he spoke to
any one. I could not see his face, though it was as light as day about us, for
we had got jammed in the crowd, and if I had not kept between his feet, I should
have been trodden to death. Jim, being larger than I was, had got separated from
us.
Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, "Is every
one out of the hotel?" A voice shouted back, "I'm going up to see."
"It's Jim Watson, the fireman," cried some one near. "He's risking his life to
go into that pit of flame. Don't go, Watson." I don't think that the brave
fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant later the same voice
said "He's planting his ladder against the third story. He's bound to go. He'll
not get any farther than the second, anyway."
"Where are the Montagues?" shouted Mr. Morris. "Has any one seen the Montagues?"
"Mr. Morris! Mr. Morris!" said a frightened voice, and young Charlie Montague
pressed through the people to us. "Where's papa?"
"I don't know. Where did you leave him?" said Mr. Morris, taking his hand and
drawing him closer to him. "I was sleeping in his room," said the boy, "and a
man knocked at the door and said, 'Hotel on fire. Five minutes to dress and get
out,' and papa told me to put on my clothes and go downstairs, and he ran up to
mamma."
"Where was she?" asked Mr. Morris, quickly.
"On the fourth flat. She and her maid Blanche were up there. You know, mamma
hasn't been well and couldn't sleep, and our room was so noisy that she moved
upstairs where it was quiet." Mr. Morris gave a kind of groan. "Oh I'm so hot,
and there's such a dreadful noise," said the little boy, bursting into tears,
"and I want mamma." Mr. Morris soothed him as best he could, and drew him a
little to the edge of the crowd.
While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry. I could not see the person
making it, but I knew it was the Italian's voice. He was screaming, in broken
English that the fire was spreading to the stables, and his animals would be
burned. Would no one help him to get his animals out? There was a great deal of
confused language. Some voices shouted, "Look after the people first. Let the
animals go." And others said, "For shame. Get the horses out." But no one seemed
to do anything, for the Italian went on crying for help. I heard a number of
people who were standing near us say that it had just been found out that
several persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out.
They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking for
help. Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows, for smoke was
pouring from them.
The air was very hot and heavy and I didn't wonder that Charlie Montague felt
ill. He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris hadn't taken him in his
arms, and carried him out of the crowd. He put him down on the brick sidewalk,
and unfastened his little shirt, and left me to watch him, while he held his
hands under a leak in a hose that was fastened to a hydrant near us. He got
enough water to dash on Charlie's face and breast, and then seeing that the boy
was reviving, he sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee. Charlie lay
in his arms and moaned. He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough
usage as the Morris boys could.
Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he shuddered
whenever there was a cry from the burning building. "Poor souls God help them.
Oh, this is awful," he said; and then he turned his eyes from the great sheets
of flame and strained the little boy to his breast. At last there were wild
shrieks that I knew came from no human throats. The fire must have reached the
horses. Mr. Morris sprang up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he
could be of no use. There