Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business by L. A. Meyer

. . . and prevention.”
    The little white-haired man in back explodes into giggles over his boss’s words, but his eyes never leave the burned-out building, out of which steps a soot-covered Arthur McBride. He sees Pigger and company and comes over.
    â€œGet out of here, Tooley. You ain’t wanted here.”
    â€œWhy, Captain,” says Pigger with a wide grin. “We just stopped by to see if we could help out a fellow firefighter.”
    â€œHelp?” Arthur spits a black gob of spittle on the ground in front of the wagon. “Is that why you brought yer whore and yer looney instead of yer water wagon?”
    â€œYou be careful just who you slanders, Captain,” warns Pigger, his grin still in place as he chucks his team and rolls off.
    â€œI know the two up top, Arthur, but what is the
thing
in the back?” I ask.
    â€œHe’s known as Pyro Johnny, and he is a dirty piece of work, for sure. He’s holed up at Skivareen’s with the rest of Tooley’s crew. People ’round here hire him to burn brush and garbage, but the word is he sets other fires, too.” Arthur looks significantly at the smoldering house. “This fire could have started in the kitchen below, but it could have been Pyro’s work just as easy. Look at him, Jacky, he can’t get enough of this.”
    Pigger’s wagon is about to disappear around the corner, but the little man has moved to the back of the cart, still staring at the fire scene, his hands gripped on the sides, his eyes shining.
    â€œWhy hasn’t he been sent to a lunatic asylum, then? Or hanged?”
    â€œBecause Constable Fat Ass Wiggins would have to be the one to arrest him, and you know the name of that tune, don’t you?” says McBride. He looks me up and down, his white toothy grin splitting the black of his face. Then he says, his mind no longer on Wiggins, “So, our Saint Jacky of Assisi today risks her own dear skin to rescue and breathe the air of life back into a mongrel dog. Such a thing, it fair tears me heart out.”
    I give a bit of a sniff. “Someone once did that same thing for me and I felt I should pass it on.”
    He laughs and turns to his men. “We’re done here, lads. Patsy, Dougie, fill some buckets and stick around and watch for flare-ups. Rest o’ you, let’s go—we gotta refill in case Pyro makes some more work for us.”
    The woman of the house is being taken away, weeping, by friends and relatives. Her little girl tags along, her puppy bouncing by her side. The ladders are stowed and secured and I put my foot on one of them and regain my perch on top of the pump. Molly comes up behind me and wraps her arms about my waist, the men cling to the sides, the team is turned, and we head off, back down Beacon Street.
    Again we approach the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, but this time a black-clad figure leaves the front porch where she has obviously been standing, waiting for our return, to advance to the middle of the street, right arm upraised, palm forward. Arthur reins in the horses and we come to a halt. The person says nothing, but only points to me and then points to a spot in front of her.
    With a sigh, I climb down and go to the spot and curtsy, as best as I can, given my soot-streaked face and dress.
    â€œMy office, Miss Faber,” she says, then turns away.
    â€œYes, Mistress,” I say with a certain amount of resignation in my voice. I wave the others on, for they must fill their pump and I am not far from the
Nancy B.
,
which is where I intend to stay this night. They wave and clatter off and I follow Headmistress Amanda Pimm into the Lawson Peabody.
    I enter her office, as I have done so many times before, in a state of disarray, and put my toes on the white line, once more a schoolgirl. I resist the impulse to flip up my skirts and lay my upper body across the desk, ready to receive punishment.
    â€œSo, Miss Faber,