XI
Togo Becomes a Fire Hero
To Editor Good Housekeeper Magazine who saves more homes than insurance.
Hon. Dear Sir:—Another place where I am habitually absent can be found at home of Hon. Mrs. & Mr. Susan J. Fogg, Turnverein, Conn. I was burnt away from that place because of my heroism. I tell you how was:
This Mrs. Fogg lady reside with her husband and furniture in a residence, which are covered with extremely wooden decorations, which talented sculptors have cut out with saws. She say it is one Queen Annie house. Perhaps so it is. Maybe this Annie were empress of Coney Island to build such merry architecture.
Hon. Mrs. Boss are considerable proud of her house & what is inside. She got an elaborate number of plush picture-frames containing photos of Homer. Also she got cute jugs and pitchers walking over shelves & tables resembling decorated bugs doing so. Her dining room are full of cut-up glasswear to resemble swollen diamonds. Over mantel-peace are portrait-face of Uncle Seth, famous hero, who was scared to death in Battle of Bully Run.
“Home,” she say so to me on date she hired me for employment, “Home should be full of objects to resemble soul of sweet lady what keep it.”
“What a romping soul you must have!” I exclam for chivalry, while rubbing eyes to observe purply curtains and reddy carpets.
“My house is nearly all furnished with wedding presents, birthday tributes and auction bargains of happy days,” she tell proudishly. “I value them for dear associations.”
“Dear associations seldom match in color,” I narrate. She did not assimilate those words I said it.
“For instancely,” she go onwards, “there is painted fire-shovel with snow-scenery from Grandpa’s farm. I would not take considerable for that shovel.”
“How much has you been offered?” I ask to know.
But she was thinking elsewheres.
“Togo,” she otter with serious eyebrows, “there is not one drop of fire insurance on this house!”
My heart stand on end for this informations. “Then it would not pay to burn it!” I gosp.
“Daily and nightly,” she agnosticate, “I worry with brain for fear some spark or blazes might walk into my home and burn all my sweet art and dear menorandum to zero of ashes!”
“I shall smother all arson with great cruelty,” are fire-chief promise I make.
So Hon. Mrs. Fogg donate to me one smallish volume of book entitled “First Ade to Fires.” This literature, which is bound in 4th of July color, tell me following information about fire when he gets loose:
“Chimbleys are most dangerous articles to have around a house because they gets clogged with soot, thusly causing inflammation of the roof which creates blazes and burns insurance. Total loss. Best way to put out a mad chimbley is to sprinkle salt down him until he quits.
“In case of houseafire, human folks must be saved before all other furniture, because they are most combustable. This can be did by throwing wet blanket over them and dragging them forth. Valuable heirlooms can be saved from burning house by taking them out.”
I read this instructions, Mr. Editor, and feel prepared for anything.
This Mrs. Fogg got one Irish cooklady name of Hilda Katz. Hon. Hilda are beautiful, except her face and figure, which are not. She enjoy very sorry romance, because of Hon. Wm., a hack-driver, who drove away with another fiancée and remain there. Consequent of this, Hon. Hilda weep & cook nearly all time.
“Togo,” she report to me, while making tears and pies, “never promise to marry any gentleman in the livery-stable business.”
“I shall avoid this peril firmly,” I narrate.
“67 doz assorted love-letters this Wm. sent me. And what usefulness are they now?” Weeps by her.
“They might make a sad novel, if printed among pictures,” I say so.
She peel onions with Romeo expression.
But I were too busy being a fire-detective to think of Wm. and his escape from love. Nearly each hour by clock-time Hon. Mrs. would come to me and talk underwriter language:
“You hear that smell of smoke?” she require.
“It smell like New Haven Railroad burning dividends six miles away,” I say with syrup voice.
One day, my Cousin Nogi give me sweethearted gift of one valuable cigar, price 5c. cash-money. I nourish this dear tobacco very carefully in pocket and await till late night-hour when I could smoke him in my room & think of my ancestors. So I lock door, open window and do so. In midst of puffs I hear something.
Knock-knock! This noise by Hon. Door. I unlock lock and gaze outside to where Hon. Mrs. Fogg was there with kimono & pale eyebrows.
“Some odor is burning in this house!” she gollup.
“What perfume of smell do it resemble?” I ask it.
“It resemble a fire among dry goods,” she gubble.
“Be calmly quiet,” I negotiate. “The smell you heard was merely only slight gift-cigar I smoke in honor of my Cousin Nogi.”
“I would avoid such a cousin,” she snib with nose. “Blow out gas and go to bed at oncely!”
I could hear her peevishness by her feet as they walked.
It were nice, balmish evening of summer weather when Mrs. and Mr. Chas Hassock, neighborly persons of quiet fashion, was there to play bridge-gamble amidst society clothing. Hon. Mr. Fogg, medium gentleman with tame whiskers, were also there acting like a husbandman.
Bridge-card resume for several hours while those 4 persons sat there calling each other “Trumps” and other American insults.
O suddenly!! what was that my nose smelled? Inflammatory smell of fire!!
With iced brain I recall what “First Ade to Fires” said about mad chimbleys, so I rosh silently to outside house to see how ours were behaving. O surely yes! Hon. Chimbley were shooting sparkles & pin-wheels from his enraged bricks!
What I do then? With immediate quickness, I rosh to dining-room and grab 2 salt-sellers in my courageous thumbs. Making my toes extremely swift, I clomb ladder to roof & scramble along shingles with care peculiar to Thos. Cats. Then, by heroic movements of wrists, I pepper considerable salt straight into the face of that mad Chimbley. Yet he still continue on making Vesuvius out of himself.
What nextly must I do? I think of that fire-volume which say, “Human folks must be saved before all other furniture.”
So I scomper to bed-room, dragg forth one complete blanket & soush him in wet water of bath-tub. With these blanket held in my firm knuckles, I ascended downstairs to parlor where Hon. Mrs. Fogg set in her marcel hair and considerable expensive face-powder calling Mrs. Hassock a “Renig” in bridge-language.
With wetness of blanket, I stand behind Hon. Mrs. Fogg.
“What for?” she holla when she seen me. But before anything else could collapse, I wound wettish blanket round her head.
“Gog!” she report with strangely voice. Yet, before she could narrate more, I had drogged her forthly to fresh air.
“What is the meaning of this meanness?” require Hon. Fogg.
“Meaning of Fire!” I yellup. “Why do you stand there making speechless talks, when your home is sparking?”
At this oratory of words, everybody begin making hook-and-ladder movements. Hon. Fogg grabb bird-cage and pair of tongs. Hon. Mrs. save 3 plush albums. Hon. Hassock attemp to remove sideboard, but it were nailed to floor. Hon. Mrs. Hassock rosh down street breaking fire-alarms out of telephone poles.
But I were more Sandow in my strength. With Samurai knuckles, I grasp cabinet full of cut-up glasswear and roll him down front steps to lawn. Loud crashes! Thusly was valuable dishes saved from fire.
With deer-foot heels, I eloped upstairs to bedroom and begin pouring entire household out of window. Mattrass, pitchers, rugs, etc., fell like Niagara falling. When I threw forth family water-color landscape representing the face of Aunt Nerissa Hodges, it make boomerang fly-off and struck on head of Hon. Fogg which went through. Too bad.
I were just in the heroism of poking brass bedstead through pane of glass, when Mrs. and Mr. Fogg escorted by Mrs. and Mr. Hassock and Hon. Hilda Katz, cook-lady, suddenly encroach into room and seeze me.
“Platoon of brainless mind!” they all hiss like circular snakes. “Who inform you this house were blaze?”
“Did I not see Hon. Chimbley spitting rockets?” This from me.
“Sakes of shucks!” commute Hon. Hilda contemptibly. “That were not house-afire. That were merely me burning negligent love-letters in kitchen stove.”
Grones by all.
“So my house are not afire!” report Hon. Mrs. for disappoint.
“So sorry!” I regret. In distant midnight I could hear rural hose-carriage approaching with gongs. “Maybe there was no fire, but this were very useful practice. Also I was enabled to show you the iced quality of my intelligence. If there had been some fire, I should put it out!”
“You have put nearly everything else out,” sorrowfully Hon. Mrs., looking outside to moonlight where the entire interior of her home lay scrambled on the lawn.
Hon. Fogg gargle with his teeth.
“Since you are so talented at putting things out,” he suggest, “perhaps you can place yourself elsewheres with immediate rapidness.”
I oblige. When nextly observed, I were setting in R. R. Station awaiting for morning train and feeling quite roasted.
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.