Mr. Cake was transfixed; he never moved his eyes until the second, third and fourth installment of shell-fish were served up.
Mr. Boggs then spoke about drinks. Johnny protested that he never drank anything that would intoxicate – in fact, he was an uncompromising teetotaller. Still, however, he had no objections to treating the crowd, as that would give him an opportunity to remain a few minutes more with the object of his admiration. He continued to watch the motions, whilst his friends were doing justice to the spirituous decoctions. At last Mr. Spout told Johnny that it was time to go. Johnny went to the bar, paid the bill, and, as the party regained the street, Johnny Cake said, with a sigh, that he only wished he were an oyster, that he, too, might be the willing victim of that young man's knife. But, inasmuch as he was not, it was his intention to gratify his desire to see the young man's manipulations by coming every night until he was satisfied.
It is a fact which may be asserted, that Mr. Johnny Cake, as the members of the club had now learned to call him, with forty "oysters and the fixens" on board, did not walk with much apparent comfort.
The club stopped to deliberate, but in the midst of their deliberations the City Hall bell sounded, and instantly commenced all that furious uproar peculiar to Gotham at the sound of an alarm of fire. A crowd of screaming men and boys came tearing along, dragging Engine No. 32½, which hung back and jumped about, as if determined not to go at any hazard. About half a block in advance of this crazy throng rushed a frantic man, with a red shirt and a tin trumpet. Each individual yelled as if the general resurrection were at hand, and he under special obligations to wake up some particular friend. The rheumatic engine held back with all its power, and seemed, for the moment, endowed with a kind of obstinate vitality. Now it threw its wheel round a lamp-post, then it tumbled against the curb-stone, then it ran its tongue into an awning, then affectionately embraced with its projecting arms a crockery-wagon, and finally, with a kind of inanimate dogged determination not to go ahead, in turning a short corner, it leaped triumphantly astride a hydrant, where it stuck. The men tugged, but the engine held fast; the frantic man in the red shirt came tearing back; he had gone far enough ahead to see that 13¼'s boys had got their stream on the fire, and he was furious at the delay. One mighty jerk, and the men and boys were piled in a huge kicking mass on the pavement, which phenomenon was occasioned by the unexpected breaking of the rope. The rope was tied, and by a united effort directed at the wheels, the brakes, the tongue, and every get-at-able point, the machine was again started, protesting, with creaks, and groans, and various portentous rumblings in its inner works, against the roughness of its treatment.
The frantic red-shirt-man howled through his trumpet that Hose 243/8 was coming. The boys looked back, and Hose 243/8 was coming. Hose 243/8 came alongside. Hose 243/8 tried to go by. Hose 243/8 was evidently striving to get to the fire in advance of her betters, but Hose 243/8 couldn't do it – for, at this interesting juncture, 32½'s fellows waked up to their work, and the race began. Single gentlemen got into door-ways, or crawled under carts; the ladies who were in the street at that time of night disappeared down oyster-cellars; the M.P.s probably went through the coal-holes, for not one was at that instant "visible to the naked eye." Stages, to get out of the way, turned down alleys so narrow that they had to be drawn out backwards; an express-wagon was run into, and wrecked on a pile of bricks; an early milk-cart was left high and dry on a mountain of oyster-shells; a belated hand-cart-man deserted his vehicle in the middle of the street, and it was instantly demolished, while the owner was only preserved from a similar fate by being knocked gently over a picket-fence into an area, where there couldn't anybody get at him. In the height and very fury of the race, the crowd rushed upon the Elephantines, who were gazing in fancied security at the mixed-up spectacle before them. In an instant they were all inextricably entangled in the rush; those that escaped 32½ were caught up instantly by 243/8, and those who got away from 243/8, were seized upon by 32½. It was no use resisting – on they must go. The ponderosity of John Spout was no protection to him; nor did the lankness of Dusenbury Quackenbush, and the unreliable appearance of his legs, avail him anything. The quiet inoffensiveness of Van Dam was not respected; no regard was paid to the philosophical composure of Mr. Remington Dropper. The youthful face of Johnny Cake, too, availed nothing in his favor. Mr. Boggs became involved, and all were irretrievably mingled with the howling demi-devils who were racing for the miniature purgatory, the flames from which could now be plainly seen. It was "No. 1, round the corner," the residence of "My Uncle," and each one was anxious to redeem his individual effects without going through the formality of paying charges and giving up the tickets.
But their very anxiety was a serious bar to their rapid progress: and the two machines were jammed together by the zealous rivals. Hard words ensued, and a general row was the instant and legitimate result. Quackenbush was complimented with a lick over the head with a trumpet, in the hands of the frantic red-shirt-man, who accused him of locking the tongue of 243/8 into 32½'s wheel. Dropper had his hat knocked over his eyes, and thereupon, his indignation being roused, he hit out, right and left. His first vigorous blow inflicted terrific damage upon the amiable countenance of his best friend, Mr. Van Dam, and the very first kick he gave upset Mr. John Spout upon the protruding stomach of a man who had been knocked down with a spanner. John quickly recovered himself, and hit Van Dam a clip in the sinister optic, which placed that useful member in a state of temporary total eclipse. The battle became general, and each man waged an indiscriminate war upon his neighbor. Between the affectionate thrashing they gave each other, and the indiscriminate kicks and punches they received from outsiders, the Elephantines were well pommelled. By the time 32½ and 243/8 had got out of the muss, and were fairly on their way to the fire again, Mr. John Spout was the only one of that fraternal band visible on his feet. Dropper was doubled up across a hydrant, Van Dam was comfortably reposing on his back, in the middle of the street, while Quackenbush was sitting on him, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes, and to ascertain, as nearly as possible, the number of teeth he had swallowed. But when the members came together to make mutual explanations, Johnny Cake was non est. Great, indeed, was the cry that was heard after the missing member. Quackenbush bellowed out, in a heavy, sonorous voice, that the difficulty was all past, when Johnny's shrill voice was heard in response. The voice proceeded from an empty molasses hogshead, into which Johnny had jumped, during the melee, for safety. His brother-members released him from his situation, and, when he was once more on Gotham's pavement, he was literally a sweet case. Dirty sugar adhered to every part of his exterior. Explanations were then made, and the members proceeded to shake hands all round, except Mr. Dropper, who couldn't shake hands with anybody, because some one had upset a bucket of tar on his fingers, and he couldn't get it off.
The matter being at length arranged to the satisfaction of all concerned, they adjourned from the sidewalk to a beer-shop, where they washed their faces, pinned up the rents in their pantaloons, and got the jams out of their hats, as well as they could upon so short a notice. They then found their way to the club-room, held a council, and without a great deal of deliberation, it was resolved, every man for himself:
That, to prevent the future possibility of all the members of the club having black eyes at the same time, the members would, from this time forth, pursue their investigations singly, or in pairs – the optical adornment of a single person being bearable, but for all the club to be simultaneously thus affected, was a phenomenon not down in the bills.
The club then adjourned for convalescence.
FIRST EVENING WITH THE CLUB
"Dogs bark." —
AS soon as the members of the Elephant Club had recovered their normal appearance, each issued forth alone to catch further glimpses of the colossal quadruped of the metropolis. Each was assiduous in pursuing his investigations, and all manifested a spirit of self-denial worthy of martyrs in the cause of scientific research. The quantity of bad liquors they drank in forming new acquaintances, it were useless to estimate; the horrible cigars they smoked with those acquaintances are beyond computation, and yet they never flagged for a moment. After a few days, thus passed, the Higholdboy thought it time the club should hear the reports of its members. He, accordingly,
