Fighting the Flames
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Оглавление
Robert Michael Ballantyne. Fighting the Flames
Chapter One. How the Fight Began
Chapter Two. Another Little “Spark.”
Chapter Three. Fire!!!
Chapter Four. A Fierce Fight With The Flames
Chapter Five. Willie Willders in Difficulties
Chapter Six “When one is another who is which?”
Chapter Seven. Thoughts in regard to Men
Chapter Eight. A Hidden Fire
Chapter Nine. Auctions and Gymnastics
Chapter Ten. Difficulties and Dissipations
Chapter Eleven. Wonderful Plans
Chapter Twelve. A Little Domestic Chit-Chat
Chapter Thirteen. Wild Doings and Daring Deeds
Chapter Fourteen. Joe Corney’s Adventure with Ghosts
Chapter Fifteen. A New Phase of Life
Chapter Sixteen. Willie in a New Light
Chapter Seventeen. Home Life
Chapter Eighteen. Joe Corney’s Advice
Chapter Nineteen. Dark Plots are hatched
Chapter Twenty. A little more Hatching
Chapter Twenty One. A Small Tea-Party
Chapter Twenty Two. A Fireman’s Life
Chapter Twenty Three. Mr James Auberly
Chapter Twenty Four. A Change in Fortune
Chapter Twenty Five. Changes and Mysteries
Chapter Twenty Six. What Drink will do
Chapter Twenty Seven. An Old Plot
Chapter Twenty Eight. At the Post of Duty
Chapter Twenty Nine. Willie Willders in Difficulties
Chapter Thirty. The Best-Laid Plans
Chapter Thirty One. New Lights of Various Kinds
Chapter Thirty Two. The Fire in Tooley Street
Chapter Thirty Three. The Last
Отрывок из книги
Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs little and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity—having begun no doubt with Adam—or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that “warble in the flowering thorn.”
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He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a man turned the corner at full speed and ran him down—ran him down so completely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and, passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began to pull violently.
The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, with stockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter to toe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed by the heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road. Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunates into whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards, his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration running down his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would have recognised Hopkins—the staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkins—had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.
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