boy! My boy!" shrieked Mrs. Brainard, running forward with outstretched arms, as the smoke again closed around him.
Peter caught her. "Stand back, ma'am. For heaven's sake, stand back! Ye'll ketch yer dress. He ain't hurt none; the fire ain't reached him. I'll save him," and whipping out his knife, Peter dashed into the smoke. He returned three minutes later, a mass of stripes and mingled grease kicking in his arms.
Mrs. Brainard, who had closed her eyes preparing to faint, opened them again and looked at Augustus. He was a muddy copper colour with here and there a vivid touch of blue, and he exuded a peculiarly blent odour of brass polish and smoke.
"Is—is he dead?" she gasped.
"He's quite lively, ma'am," said Peter, grimly struggling to hold him.
She opened her arms with a sob of relief, and received the boy, grease and smoke and all; while the three remaining braves modestly tried to efface themselves.
"Robert," said Mrs. Carter, laying a detaining hand on her son's tri-coloured shoulder, "what is the meaning of this outrageous affair?"
Bobby dug his eyes with his greasy fists and whimpered.
"We just tied him to the stake and pretended to burn him. And then we sat down to smoke a pipe of peace, and I guess maybe the straw caught fire."
"It did—apparently," said his mother; her tone carried a suggestion of worse to come.
Peter, having hastily organized a fire brigade, succeeded in saving the buckboard and a few of the farming tools, but the building itself was beyond salvation. The wood was dry and thoroughly seasoned, and the feeble stream of water from the garden hose served to increase the smoke rather than to lessen the flames. The men finally fell back in a panting circle and watched it burn.
"Gee!" ejaculated Peter, "I'm glad it was the waggon-shed. It might have been the stables."
"Or the house," added Mrs. Carter.
"Or Augustus!" breathed Mrs. Brainard.
The roof fell in with a crash, and the flames leaped up to surround it. A mild cheer broke from the spectators; since there was nothing more to be done, they might as well enjoy the bonfire. The cheer was echoed by an answering shout at the end of the avenue, and a moment later the Sea Garth volunteer hook and ladder company dashed into sight, drawn by two foam-covered horses, the firemen still struggling into belated uniforms.
They came to a stand; half a dozen men tore off the nearest ladder and dragged it to the burning building. There, they hesitated dubiously. It was clearly an impossible feat to lean a thirty-foot ladder against a one-story waggon-shed whose roof had fallen in. Their chief, an impressive figure in a scarlet shirt and a rubber helmet, advanced to take command. He grasped the painful situation, and for a moment he looked dashed. The next moment, however, he had regained his poise, and announced, in a tone of triumph; "We'll save the stables!"
Mrs. Carter stepped forward with a voice of protest.
"Oh, no, I beg of you! It isn't necessary. The sparks are flying in the other direction. My own men have fortunately been able to cope with the fire, and while I am very much obliged for your trouble, there is no necessity for further aid."
"Madam," said the chief, "the wind is likely to change at any moment, and a single spark falling on that shingle roof would sweep away every building on the place. I am sorry to be disobliging, but it is my duty to protect your property." He waved her aside and issued his orders. For the first time in her life Mrs. Carter found that she was not master on her own place.
Five minutes later half a dozen ladders were resting against the main edifice of the stables, while the bucket brigade was happily splashing the contents of the duck pond over the shingle roof.
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