“Jerusalem, what is this!” bellowed a voice, and Joe Griffin leaped out from the midst of the burning pile; the brands rolled off the back of his woollen shirt, which was thoroughly singed, while a fox-skin cap he wore was scorched to a crisp, as was his hair; he ran round and round, as though he was mad, blowing his fingers (which where slightly burned), and slapping them on his thighs, while on his face was a mingled expression of pain, arising from the burn, and anger at being outwitted.