"It is rotten and rat-ridden from top to bottom. It must be five hundred years old."
"Five 'undred me leg," said the man without a collar. "It ain't more than two."
"Lord Bacon lived in it, anyway."
"Wot if he did? I tell you it ain't more than two."
The controversialist spat on the pavement authoritatively, and those who surrounded him, who knew he was wrong, deferred to his opinion humbly.
"There's the flame," said a quiet man excitedly. "Why don't they bring the engines?"
"They want it to get a firm 'old," said the man without a collar, "so that they can put it out in style."
"They will have something to go at when they do come," said a nervous man, who wore spectacles. "There it goes through the roof. Look, look, see that!"
There could be no measure of uncertainty as to the power the fire had acquired already. Smoke and flame were pouring and leaping out of the windows and through the old red tiles into the dull December sky. A stern joy held Northcote as he gazed. Every instant of delay increased his chance. It needed a holocaust to ensure his safety. He derived that thrill of impersonal satisfaction which visits a good craftsman when a work is placed before him which has been adequately planned and executed.
"The engines ought to have been round from Fenchurch Street afore now," said one, whose mustache bristled like that of a county councillor.
