“Yes,” said Morris, “and from the way the fellows talked last year you’d think that they did nothing else but fight fire.”
The foreman, who was passing by the porch, heard the remark and stopped, leaning up against the screen.
“Don’t you worry yourselves about not getting any fire-fighting experience,” he said. “Two of the patrolmen ’phoned in this afternoon that the fires in the north and west were bad ones. If the wind comes up from those directions they’ll need all the men they can get.”
“Do you think there is any chance of a wind?” Merton asked, eying the sky inquiringly.
“If we don’t have one in the next three or four days,” the foreman answered, “it will be the first chance it ever missed.”
“Three or four days,” Scott grumbled in disgust; “the fires may all be out by that time.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” the foreman answered him. “Those fires are not in the habit of going out of themselves even in three or four weeks. Nothing short of a week’s rain or an army can put them out now.”
“I’ll bet if it does blow it will be from the south,” Bill grunted; “there’s a conspiracy to do us out of part of our rightful education.”
As the foreman moved off chuckling, he called back over his shoulder:
“The wagons are all packed ready to start, and I’ll bet pop for the crowd that we’re on the fireline somewhere in thirty-six hours.”