It had been brought in by little Peggy, the timber girl. On the road down from the woods, where they were working, the timber gang had been passed by Mr. Price's wagoner's boy, who was scorching into "the town" by the shortest way, and as fast as an out-of-date old bicycle could take him.
"Heard the news?" he had shrieked out to the gang. "Fire at Mr. Price's farm!"
Immediately the songs of the timber girls (who always, on their return from work, made the welkin ring with selections from Revue) had stopped upon a staccato note.
"Fire?" they'd all shrilled together. "Is it a bad one?"
"Yes, I think!" the wagoner's son had retorted with that enthusiastic glee over ill-tidings which marks the small boy. "All the barns is in a blaaaze! Burn up the harvest it will!"
He had whooped and sped on.
This was the story Peggy brought back. Horrified beyond words, Elizabeth and I stared at one another.
It must have happened only just after we had left off work! But what had happened?
"Let's go and see. We must go back and see!" I exclaimed to my chum. "Perhaps we shall be able to help. Anyhow, let's get back to the farm at once! Come along, quick!"
Together Elizabeth and I bolted like rabbits out of the porch of the hut, leaving a chattering group of girls to look after us. Two or three of them broke away to join us. Peggy, with a large hunk of bread and rhubarb jam in her hand, overtook us first.