With the first note Ned poised in his hands the slab which he was transferring from heap to pile, and waited, breathless, to see whether it was the water-works’ alarm, or only a steamboat. With the second he dropped his slab, and straightened. Yes, indeed, it was the fire-whistle! Bob lifted his nose, and howled vigorously. This was the influence of the whistle upon all dogs within ear-shot: it made them howl and howl, but nobody knew why.
Ned scanned the horizon. In the southeast, topping the maples which bordered either side of the street, he caught a glimpse of a huge cloud of black smoke, sluggishly unfolding and spreading.
The spectacle electrified him. In a second he and Bob were rushing wildly through the yard, and out of the front gate.
“It’s the lumber yards—it’s Mosher’s lumber yards!” he cried, to his mother, who was standing, anxious-faced, on the porch.
“Oh, Ned!” she exclaimed.
No more wood piling on that day!
The pretty, modest resident street was all astir. Heads popped from windows, voices called and answered, and young and old hastened upon walk or horse-block, or into the road.
“It’s Mosher’s lumber yards!” was repeated, from lot to lot, and from corner to corner.
The bell of the Congregational church pealed forth its clamorous warning.