"Pleased to—meet you—doctor! I'm Tom Dillard. Work—in bank!"
"I'm glad to know you. You're my first acquaintance here. It's harder work pushing a fire engine than it is pushing a pen, isn't it?"
Mr. Dillard grinned acquiescence.
"Con—siderable!" he gasped.
"Whose house is it that's burning?" continued Glenning.
"Must be—Major Dudley's; no other house out—here close."
At this juncture they rounded a sharp curve in the road, and came in full view of the fire, now close at hand.
"Stable!" exploded Mr. Dillard, and everybody redoubled their exertions at the same moment, rendering further conversation out of the question.
The surrounding landscape was brilliantly lighted by the leaping flames, and Glenning saw that they were sweeping by a large, well kept lawn, back of which rose a most pretentious old home. On they dashed to a gate, which some thoughtful person had previously opened, and which let into a meadow adjoining the stable lot. The people who had started in buggies and on horseback had all arrived, and a number of them now came forward to relieve the men who had brought the engine out. Most of these willingly resigned their places, but Glenning stuck to his, and Dillard, who was preparing to step aside, gathered fresh courage, and remained also. The old engine was rushed furiously across the meadow and into the lot, in the midst of a shrill bedlam of excited cries, most of them conveying directions and suggestions entirely futile. In one corner of the lot, near the doomed stable, an old negro was waving his arms frantically and jumping up and down, yelling at every jump in a high falsetto.
"Hyar's de well! Hyar's de well! Hyar's de well! Bring de ingine hyar; Hyar's de water! Hyar's de well!"