, and directing the
water here and there. "Catch hold: I'll go and pump, and send some one
to have some food."

I took the nozzle and went on with the task, Mr Brymer hurrying forward
to the pump, while I was astonished to find how little impression had
been made upon the fire. Tons of water must have been poured into the
hold, but wherever I directed the stream, there was the sputtering,
hissing, and shrieking, and I began to ask myself whether it would be
possible to master the great body of fire after all.

A strange, nervous feeling came over me now, and I began to suppose--
and, oh, what nonsense one can suppose when that tap is turned on, and
allowed to run!--I imagined danger after danger. I saw the fire
gradually eating its way to chests of horrible explosives--chemicals of
whose existence we were not aware--and as, with feverish haste, I
directed the heavy streams of water down into that thick mist of vapour,
I kept on fancying that the sharp reports of steam were the precursors
of another terrible explosion, of which, from my position, I should be
the first victim. And as I thought these horrors, I poured the water
here, there, everywhere, so as to make sure that I did not miss the
dangerous place, though, even as I directed the jet, I felt as nervous
as ever. For I told myself that the explosive might be so tightly
packed to make it waterproof that all I sent down was only for it to run
off again, and that I might spare my pains.

Just as I was in one of my most nervous fits, there was a momentary
cessation of the pumping, and instead of hissing and spurting violently
from the nozzle, the water ceased for a moment or two and then shot out
in a couple of feeble spurts.

"It's all over," I thought; "the pump has broken down."

But the thought had hardly crossed my mind when the jet came as strong
as ever, and I knew that they must have been changing hands, proof of
this being the correct idea coming directly after out of the dense mist.
For a well-known voice exclaimed--

"Hold on tight, Mr Dale, sir; we're coming by this side, so as to speak
you."

"Who's with you, Bob?" I cried.

"T'other two, sir; Barney and Neb. There's Mr Trout-and-Salmon Preddle
at one handle, and the doctor at t'other, with Mr Brymer to relieve
while we're off dooty to go and 'vestigate the wittling department.
That's so, eh, lads?"

"Ay, ay," growled Dumlow.

"That's so," said Barney; "and then I'm to take my turn at