Mason stared in wonder in the direction of where the wood had been heaped up for the bonfire. The burning tobacco had been carried by the wind to this heap and had landed on the box of carbide. A few drops of rain were coming down, and the carbide was commencing to blaze up like a gasolene torch.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” cried Ritter and running forward he kicked at the brushwood in semi-darkness. Over went the can of carbide into a pool of water. At once came a flash of fire from the gas thus generated, and the brushwood commenced to blaze away at a lively rate.
It was now raining lightly and the wind was blowing stronger and stronger. Ritter tried to put out the fire, but it roared louder and louder, as more gas from the carbide was generated, and he grew afraid and drew back.
“Fred Century had that carbide,” said Mason. “I saw him with it.”
“Sure he had it,” added Ritter quickly. “It’s his fault that the brushwood took fire.”
“But he didn’t set it on fire, Reff.”
“How do you know?”
“He isn’t anywhere around.”
“Humph! He might have put a slow match to it.”
“Do you think he did that? I saw some fire in the air—but I thought it came from this direction.”