“What d'you mean?” asked Tom, aghast.
“That poor cripple! They can't get away, he and his grandmother. Perhaps Toby hasn't come home yet.”
“And the wind's that way,” Tom interrupted.
It was indeed. The storm had come up from the west and the wind was still blowing almost directly into the east. A sheet of flame flew from the top of the old dead tree even as the boy spoke, and was carried toward the thick forest. It did not reach it, and as the blazing brand fell it was quenched on the wet surface of the sawdust.
Nevertheless, the fire was spreading under the crust and soon the few other dead trees left standing on the tract would burst into flame. As they looked, the fire burst out at the foot of the tree and began to send long tongues of flame licking up the shredded bark.
The effect of the drenching rain would soon be gone and the fire would secure great headway.
“Those poor folks are right in the track of the fire, I allow,” admitted Tom. “I wonder if he's got a good wide fire strip ploughed?”
“Oh! I know what you mean,” Nan cried. “You mean all around the edge of his farm where it meets the woods?”
“Yes. A ploughed strip may save his buildings. Fire can't easily cross ploughed ground. Only, if these woods get really ablaze, the fire will jump half a mile!”
“Oh no, Tom! You don't mean that?”