Yes, it was not
bad people, only good and kind folks and watchmen.

So it sleeps on again in peace and dreams no more.

But when they _did_ come, those three terrible cannon shots which
announced a fire, shaking and even bursting in the windows, unbounded
terror prevailed. High above the dark streets the hazy sky was
glowing like a sea of fire.

The drummer, Long Jorgen, beat furiously with the thicker ends of his
drumsticks; men with hoarse voices, and boys with shrill notes like
those of sea-gulls, rushed through the streets shouting: "Fire!
fire!"

Outside the engine-house, people carrying lanterns were assembling,
swearing, and shouting for the keys.

They hang behind the fire inspector's bed.

Off, then, to the fire inspector's.

In the pitchy darkness, the messenger encounters him, and running
full tilt against him, knocks the bunch of keys into the mud. Whilst
search is made for them with three lanterns, some sailors break open
the doors, and the engine is run out with a dismal rumbling sound.

Old women in their nightcaps run into the streets, with a washhand
basin or a flatiron. In the houses all flock to the parents'
bed-chamber. The smaller children sit up in bed and cry, whilst the
elder girls, half dressed, their hair hanging down their backs, and
white and trembling with fear, strive to comfort them.

But the mother sets to work to make coffee--hot coffee is good for
everything, and under all circumstances.

From time to time the father returns home to report how things are
going on.

Long since the boys have dressed themselves and disappeared. It is a
holiday to them, a festival of terror. The red sky overhead, the
darkness of the night the flames which now and then pierce the canopy
of smoke, the men rushing about and shouting--all this fills them
with an excitement equal to ten romances.

Determined to attempt something prodigious, to distinguish themselves
by something manly beyond conception, they rush into houses where
there is neither fire nor danger, and fasten upon the most immovable
and impossible objects.

The fire inspector stands by the engines and takes command; two rows
of men and lads pass the water forwards, and return the empty
buckets. At the seaside, or down by some well, the younger sailors
take it in turn to fill the buckets, until they are wet through and
their arms benumbed.

Officers of the Citizen Corps, in their blue tail coats with white
facings, run here an