What he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was divided from those on either hand by a stack of chimneys; to get round the end of these stacks was impossible, or at all events too dangerous a feat unless it were the last resource, but by climbing to the apex of the slates he would be able to reach the chimney-pots, to drag himself up to them, and somehow to tumble over on to the safer side. To this undertaking he forthwith addressed himself. Without difficulty he reached the ridge; standing on it he found that only by stretching his arm to the utmost could he grip the top of a chimney-pot. Had he the strength necessary to raise himself by such a hold? And suppose the pot broke?

His life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke warned him that in a few minutes the uppermost storey might be in flames. He took off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of action; the ma.n.u.script, now an enc.u.mbrance, must precede him over the chimney-stack, and there was only one way of effecting that. With care he stowed the papers into the pockets of the coat; then he rolled the garment together, tied it up in its own sleeves, took a deliberate aim--and the bundle was for the present in safety.

Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched the rim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold was firm enough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such work, even when death would be the penalty of failure. Too long he had lived on insufficient food and sat over the debilitating desk. He swung this way and that, trying to throw one of his knees as high as the top of the brickwork, but there was no chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to the slates, he sat there in perturbation.

He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand by the parapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person either in the yards behind or at the back windows of other houses. The night was so obscure that he could not hope to be seen; voice alone must be depended upon, and there was no certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though he stood in his shirt-sleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him; his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futile struggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and, holding by the end of the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. At the same instant a face appeared to him--that of a man who was trying to obtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrusting out his head beyond the block of chimneys.

'Hollo!' cried the stranger. 'What are you doing there?'

'Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your roof.'

'By G.o.d! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are you the--as upset his lamp an' fired the bloomin' 'ouse?'

'Not I! He's lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time.'

'By G.o.d! I wouldn't have helped you if you'd been him. How are you coming round? Blest if I see! You'll break your bloomin' neck if you try this corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys; wait till I get a ladder.'

'And a rope,' shouted Biffen.

The man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half an hour; he felt, or imagined he felt, the slates getting hot beneath him, and the smoke was again catching his breath. But at length there was a shout from the top of the chimney-stack. The rescuer had seated himself on one of the pots, and was about to lower on Biffen's side a ladder which had enabled him to ascend from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung very carefully on the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, and both men descended in safety.

'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first question. 'I threw mine over.'

'What did you do that for?'

'There are some valuable papers in the pockets.'

They searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coat discoverable.

'You must have pitched it into the street,' said the man.

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from destruction in lament for the loss of his ma.n.u.script. He would have pursued the fruitless search, but his companion, who feared that the fire might spread to adjoining houses, insisted on his pa.s.sing through the trap-door and descending the stairs.'If the coat fell into the street,'

Biffen said, when they were down on the ground floor, 'of course it's lost; it would be stolen at once. But may not it have fallen into your back yard?'

He was standing in the midst of a cl.u.s.ter of alarmed people, who stared at him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone to run into the yard, with the result that a muddy bundle was brought in and exhibited to him.

'Is this your coat, Mister?'

'Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in the pockets.'

He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that 'Mr Bailey' was safe, and finally put it on.

'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink of water?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with exhaustion.

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and for half an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him, Biffen sat recovering his strength. By that time the firemen were hard at work, but one floor of the burning house had already fallen through, and it was probable that nothing but the sh.e.l.l would be saved. After giving a full account of himself to the people among whom he had come, Harold declared his intention of departing; his need of repose was imperative, and he could not hope for it in this proximity to the fire. As he had no money, his only course was to inquire for a room at some house in the immediate neighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a charitable spirit.

With the aid of the police he pa.s.sed to where the crowd was thinner, and came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house-doors were open, and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his story was doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to a policeman.

'Surely you can tell,' he protested, after explaining his position, 'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall have money to-morrow. If no one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to the police-station; I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute.'

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. This operation rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep.

When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he discovered that his host kept an oil-shop.

'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically.

'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to save. All my books burnt!'

Biffen shook his head dolorously.

'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and what might your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited to break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with a.s.surances that he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps were naturally first directed to Clipstone Street; the familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs's body had been brought forth in a horrible condition; but this was the only loss of life that had happened.

Thence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street, Islington. He found Reardon by the fireside, looking very ill, and speaking with hoa.r.s.eness.

'Another cold?'

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me some vermin-killer. That would suit my case.'

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the literal sense of the words omnia mea mec.u.m porto.'

He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that when he ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more amusing had ever been heard.

'Ah, but my books, my books!' exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine groan.

'And all my notes! At one fell swoop! If I didn't laugh, old friend, I should sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my cla.s.sics, with years of scribbling in the margins! How am I to buy them again?'

'You rescued "Mr Bailey." He must repay you.'

Biffen had already laid the ma.n.u.script on the table; it was dirty and crumpled, but not to such an extent as to render copying necessary.

Lovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order, then he wrapped the whole in a piece of brown paper which Reardon supplied, and wrote upon it the address of a firm of publishers.

'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in my present guise.'

Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger than of a man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess of that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown aside; round his throat was a dirty handkerchief. His coat had been brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage nearer to that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His grey trousers were now black, and his boots looked as if they had not been cleaned for weeks.

'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he asked, seating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I hint that it deals with the ign.o.bly decent?'

'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in his hoa.r.s.e voice.

'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life, the scope of which is in some degree indicated by its t.i.tle. Pity they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I risked my life to save it. If they're good enough to accept it I'll tell them the story. And now, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself, but can you without inconvenience lend me ten shillings?'

'Easily.'

'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change of address--from garret to cellar. And I must ask help from my prosperous brother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I am always loth to apply to him. May I use your paper for these purposes?'

The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business at Liverpool; the two had not met for years, but they corresponded, and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished his letters, and had received the half-sovereign from Reardon, he went his way to deposit the brown-paper parcel at the publishers'. The clerk who received it from his hands probably thought that the author might have chosen a more respectable messenger.

Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again enjoying each other's company in Reardon's room. Both were invalids, for Biffen had of course caught a cold from his exposure in shirt-sleeves on the roof, and he was suffering from the shock to his nerves; but the thought that his novel was safe in the hands of publishers gave him energy to resist these influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had any palate for tobacco at present, was the only external peculiarity of this meeting. There seemed no reason why they should not meet frequently before the parting which would come at Christmas; but Reardon was in a mood of profound sadness, and several times spoke as if already he were bidding his friend farewell.