“You little fool—are you trying to kill yourself?” roughly asked the man, holding him tight.
“But my dog’s in there!” cried Ned, straining to break away. “Here, Bob! Here, Bob!” he called.
“He’s a goner, then,” declared the man. “Don’t you see? The whole loft’s ablaze!”
“Y-y-yes, I see,” quavered Ned, growing limp with a sense of the awful thing that had happened. Oh, Bob, Bob, Bob!
He ceased his efforts to be free, and the man released him.
In the meantime Mr. Miller’s blows had splintered a hole so that he was enabled to reach in and lift the hook. The sliding door crashed open, and in through the smoke he dashed, seized the buggy by the rear axles, and dragged it into the yard. Its varnish was blistering from the heat.
Time for rescuing anything else was not given. In a fierce tide a torrent of blaze from the burning hay above poured out between the warping boards, and bending inward with the draft filled the doorway. Through the barn, top to bottom, ravaged the fire-giant with his flaming sword.
Still the water-works whistle was tooting and yodling, but not a hose cart had arrived. The crowd was growing rapidly, for the fire, fed by a ton of hay, and a quantity of grain, was lighting up the vicinity for blocks. There was a constant volley of queries about the hose-companies, and a constant gazing down street for some sign of their coming; Mr. Miller was in despair; but no cart was yet on hand.
The kitchen gable was beginning to smoke. Ned hurriedly coupled the garden hose to the faucet set in the foundation of the house, and turned the nozzle upon the scorching paint. The stream appeared ridiculously small, and was bent and shattered by the storm of inrushing air.