O that was how "Nero" Bellsmith, also known in the clubs as "The Human Firebrand," came by his name and fame, a fame which was to last, possibly not as long as that of the original Nero, but certainly longer than that of any previous Bellsmith. Six silly words, spoken over a wire, had, as he was soon to find out, shaken the City of Leicester more deeply than all the ponderous speeches ever made in the national councils by his great-uncle, the congressman Bellsmith.
Long before Bellsmith was dressed the deluge broke. In fact, it would have broken at daylight if William had been in a state of mind to answer the down-stairs telephone, the only instrument in the house which was allowed to ring before Bellsmith rose in the morning. Then, in incessant stream, came calls at the door—from reporters; from an officer of the Pilgrim Trust Co., which managed the Bellsmith estate; from adjusters of the fire insurance companies; from the city fire-marshal himself; from agents selling extinguishers and new safety styles of heating systems; from hopeful contractors; from interior decorators specializing on the artistic rich; from a leering bootlegger scenting trade; from a junk-dealer ready to make a bid on the damaged pipe, the damaged furniture, or the whole damaged house, for that matter; and finally from a plain-clothes policeman sent at the instigation of the trust company to keep away all the others.
On the telephone came calls of a more hesitant nature but in such unbroken sequence that the receiver was hardly on its hook before the bell rang again. There were calls from middle-aged women, "old friends of the family" who pretended to be solicitous about the mere fire, as such, but who were really curious to see whether Bellsmith himself was in any condition to answer. There were calls from one or two younger women and one or two hearty little men—social climbers, in both cases,—who had only the most casual acquaintance with Bellsmith but now made an elaborate and effusive show of rallying around in this hour of trial ("You poor, dear chap," from the women; "Is there anything I can do for you old man?" from the men), expecting, of course, their own pay later in the social coin of a grateful and cemented friendship.
There were calls from older men of a heavier type and a solid position who rang him up from their offices in what even they themselves believed to be a sincere concern but what was really an unresisted temptation to let their offices know that they were on common, if not necessarily friendly, terms with this famous young Harry Dashwoood.
There were anonymous calls from pay-stations which began, "Do you know who this is?" then ended abruptly with suddenly timorous feminine giggles. There were calls from cranks, insane persons, and all that indescribable army of individuals who, for no apparent reason, rush to any spot where notoriety has, for the moment, pitched its tent, until, about noon, at William's suggestion, Keefe was called from the stables to disconnect the wires.
For three days, in fact, Bellsmith had all the disagreeable experiences of fame with none of its thrills, but even the waves that broke on his door-step were only the outer foam of a flood of bewilderment and laughter which was sweeping over the city.
On Bellsmith, in short, had descended a fame of that kind which most dearly tickles the human fancy, even the fancy of those whom it shocks—the kind of fame which seeps into every nook and cranny of municipal life. Old ladies whispered over him in their drawing-rooms, loafers argued over him in the cellars and stone-quarries which had succeeded bar-rooms. Men laughed over him at the clubs, across the counter, and through the cashier's window at banks and brokerage houses. Stenographers and girls at white-goods counters cudgeled their brains to see whether or not they could remember what he looked like. If Bellsmith had gone to the Lyceum Theater on the night following his infamous declaration of independence—and been recognized—the audience would almost have stood up and cheered.