They plunged. Another geyser of fire and smoke spurted from the hole into which the rear wheel had slumped. Again and again the big horses flung themselves into the collars in an endeavor to get the wheel out.
“Oh, Tommy!” cried Nan. “We'll be burned up!”
“No you won't,” declared her cousin, leaping down. “Get off and run, Nan.”
“But you—”
“Do as I say!” commanded Tom. “Run!”
“Where, where'll I run to?” gasped the girl, leaping off the tongue, too, and away from the horses' heels.
“To the road. Get toward home!” cried Tom, running around to the rear of the timber cart.
“And leave you here?” cried Nan. “I guess not, Mr. Tom!” she murmured.
But he did not hear that. He had seized his axe and was striding toward the edge of the forest. For a moment Nan feared that Tom was running away as he advised her to do. But that would not be like Tom Sherwood!
At the edge of the forest he laid the axe to the root of a sapling about four inches through at the butt. Three strokes, and the tree was down. In a minute he had lopped off the branches for twenty feet, then removed the top with a single blow.