men who had discovered the fire and put it out,
so we jumped on the engine once more, and galloped back to the station.
Most of the men went off immediately to bed; the engine was housed; the
horses were stabled; the men on guard hung up their helmets and lay down
again on their trestle-beds; the foreman bade me "good-night," and I was
left once more in a silence that was broken only by the deep breathing
of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock--scarcely able to believe
that the stirring events of the previous hour were other than a vivid
dream.

All over London, at short distances apart, fire-escapes may be seen
rearing their tall heads in recesses and corners formed by the angles in
churches or other public buildings. Each night these are brought out to
the streets, where they stand in readiness for instant use.

At the present time the escapes are in charge of the Fire Brigade. When
I visited the firemen they were under direction of the Royal Society for
the Protection of Life from Fire, and in charge of Conductors, who sat
in sentry-boxes beside the escapes every night, summer and winter, ready
for action.

These conductors were clad like the firemen--except that their helmets
were made of black leather instead of brass. They were not very
different from other mortals to look at, but they were picked men--every
one--bold as lions; true as steel; ready each night, at a moment's
notice, to place their lives in jeopardy in order to rescue their
fellow-creatures from the flames. Of course they were paid for the
work, but the pay was small when we consider that it was the price of
indomitable courage, tremendous energy, great strength of limb, and
untiring perseverance in the face of appalling danger.

Here is a specimen of the way in which the escapes were worked.

On the night of the 2nd March 1866, the premises of a blockmaker named
George Milne caught fire. The flames spread with great rapidity,
arousing Milne and his family, which consisted of his wife and seven
children. All these sought refuge in the attics. At first Milne
thought he could have saved himself, but with so many little children
round him he found himself utterly helpless. Not far from the spot,
Henry Douglas, a fire-escape conductor, sat in his sentry-box, reading a
book, perchance, or meditating, mayhap, on the wife and little ones
slumbering snugly at home, while he kept watch over the sleeping city.
Soon the shout of fire reached