“Where’s Jimmy Claiborne?” asked Moses Ayer when Louis came back alone with the rope and tackle, staggering under the weight of the heavy coil.
“Wasn’t there,” gasped Louis. “Uncle Amasa’s on the way, though.”
Marion Royce turned sharply to Moses. “Jimmy went to your house to give the alarm,” he said.
“He never came to our house,” declared Moses. “I saw the fire myself, through the chink over my bed where the plug has come out. I called Pop and came over. Jimmy never came near us.”
The captain’s face set. “We’ve no time to bother about Jimmy, now,” he said. “One of you carry this tackle into that biggest walnut tree and make it fast about fifteen feet above the ground. It’s only to steady the strain as she drops down. Make it fast, though. We don’t want it giving way.”
Moses was already half-way to the tree. “All right,” he shouted.
Lighted only by the fire that reflected red pools in the snow, the men and boys worked at the launching that should save the ark. The great flatboat was frozen to the ways, and it seemed as if nothing but superhuman power would ever start it. Then, suddenly, an appalling report came from the burning shed. The ground shook with it, and the flames burst out again into vast torches that flared above the trees a moment and then fell back extinguished. Timbers and brands of fire shot hither and thither through the air. The men sprung away with terrorized faces.
“The whisky casks have burst,” said the captain. “I thought they had gone long ago. Is anyone hurt?”
At the edge of the clearing the light of the flames showed a figure outstretched—a grim patch of darkness on the reddened snow.
Lewis Hoyt was the first to reach it. He turned to face the anxious men who hurried to him.