Beautiful Joe [113]
were hundreds of men standing about, but the fire had
spread so rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it that there was very
little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the poor
animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the tricks that the
Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my paws. They would throw a
piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I would crush it with my forepaws; and
if the blaze was too large for that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it
and jump on it. I left Mr. Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to
the back of the hotel. It was not burned as much here as in the front, and in
the houses all around, people were out on their roofs with wet blankets, and
some were standing at the window watching the fire, or packing up their
belongings ready to move if it should spread to them. There was a narrow lane
running up a short distance toward the hotel, and I started to go up this, when
in front of me I heard such a wailing, piercing noise, that it made me shudder
and stand still. The Italian's animals were going to be burned up and they were
calling to their master to come and get them out. Their voices sounded like the
voices of children in mortal pain. I could not stand it. I was seized with such
an awful horror of the fire that I turned and ran, feeling so thankful that I
was not in it. As I got into the street I stumbled over something. It was a
large bird a parrot, and at first I thought it was Bella. Then I remembered
hearing Jack say that the Italian had a parrot. It was not dead, but seemed
stupid with the smoke. I seized it in my mouth, and ran and laid it at Mr.
Morris's feet. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, and laid it beside him.
I sat, and trembled, and did not leave him again. I shall never forget that
dreadful night. It seemed as if we were there for hours, but in reality it was
only a short time. The hotel soon got to be all red flames, and there was very
little smoke. The inside of the budding had burned away, and nothing more could
be gotten out. The firemen and all the people drew back, and there was no noise.
Everybody stood gazing silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr.
Morris, and looking at him, I saw that it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a
well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish brown hair. Now
his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the front of his head, and
his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr. Morris sprang up when he saw him,
and said "Where is your wife?"
The gentleman did not say a word, but pointed to the burning building.
"Impossible!" cried Mr. Morris. "Is there no mistake? Your beautiful young wife,
Montague. Can it be so?" Mr. Morris was trembling from head to foot.
"It is true," said Mr. Montague, quietly. "Give me the boy." Charlie had fainted
again and his father took him in his arms, and turned away.
"Montague!" cried Mr. Morris, "my heart is sore for you. Can I do nothing?"
"No, thank you," said the gentleman, without turning around; but there was more
anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris's, and though I am only a, dog, I knew
that his heart was breaking.
CHAPTER XXXV BILLY AND THE ITALIAN
MR. MORRIS stayed no longer. He followed Mr. Montague along the sidewalk a
little way, and then exchanged a few hurried words with some men who were
standing near, and hastened home through streets that seemed dark and dull after
the splendor of the fire. Though it was still the middle of the night, Mrs.
Morris was up and dressed and waiting for him. She opened the hall door with one
hand and held a candle in the other. I felt frightened and miserable, and didn't
want to leave Mr. Morris, so I crept in after him.
"Don't make a noise," said Mrs. Morris. "Laura and the boys are sleeping, and I
thought it better not to wake them. It has been a terrible fire, hasn't it? Was
it the hotel?" Mr. Morris threw himself into a chair
spread so rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it that there was very
little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the poor
animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the tricks that the
Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my paws. They would throw a
piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I would crush it with my forepaws; and
if the blaze was too large for that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it
and jump on it. I left Mr. Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to
the back of the hotel. It was not burned as much here as in the front, and in
the houses all around, people were out on their roofs with wet blankets, and
some were standing at the window watching the fire, or packing up their
belongings ready to move if it should spread to them. There was a narrow lane
running up a short distance toward the hotel, and I started to go up this, when
in front of me I heard such a wailing, piercing noise, that it made me shudder
and stand still. The Italian's animals were going to be burned up and they were
calling to their master to come and get them out. Their voices sounded like the
voices of children in mortal pain. I could not stand it. I was seized with such
an awful horror of the fire that I turned and ran, feeling so thankful that I
was not in it. As I got into the street I stumbled over something. It was a
large bird a parrot, and at first I thought it was Bella. Then I remembered
hearing Jack say that the Italian had a parrot. It was not dead, but seemed
stupid with the smoke. I seized it in my mouth, and ran and laid it at Mr.
Morris's feet. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, and laid it beside him.
I sat, and trembled, and did not leave him again. I shall never forget that
dreadful night. It seemed as if we were there for hours, but in reality it was
only a short time. The hotel soon got to be all red flames, and there was very
little smoke. The inside of the budding had burned away, and nothing more could
be gotten out. The firemen and all the people drew back, and there was no noise.
Everybody stood gazing silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr.
Morris, and looking at him, I saw that it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a
well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish brown hair. Now
his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the front of his head, and
his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr. Morris sprang up when he saw him,
and said "Where is your wife?"
The gentleman did not say a word, but pointed to the burning building.
"Impossible!" cried Mr. Morris. "Is there no mistake? Your beautiful young wife,
Montague. Can it be so?" Mr. Morris was trembling from head to foot.
"It is true," said Mr. Montague, quietly. "Give me the boy." Charlie had fainted
again and his father took him in his arms, and turned away.
"Montague!" cried Mr. Morris, "my heart is sore for you. Can I do nothing?"
"No, thank you," said the gentleman, without turning around; but there was more
anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris's, and though I am only a, dog, I knew
that his heart was breaking.
CHAPTER XXXV BILLY AND THE ITALIAN
MR. MORRIS stayed no longer. He followed Mr. Montague along the sidewalk a
little way, and then exchanged a few hurried words with some men who were
standing near, and hastened home through streets that seemed dark and dull after
the splendor of the fire. Though it was still the middle of the night, Mrs.
Morris was up and dressed and waiting for him. She opened the hall door with one
hand and held a candle in the other. I felt frightened and miserable, and didn't
want to leave Mr. Morris, so I crept in after him.
"Don't make a noise," said Mrs. Morris. "Laura and the boys are sleeping, and I
thought it better not to wake them. It has been a terrible fire, hasn't it? Was
it the hotel?" Mr. Morris threw himself into a chair