“Pshaw, Hal; they’ll stop it some way. They must, you know.”
“But Chicago burned up, Ned,” quavered Hal. “You needn’t go—your house wouldn’t burn until after ours. So you can stay, if you want to. My mother is scared to death——”
“Boom!”
“Listen! What is that?” interrupted Ned.
“Boom!”
“They’re blowing up the piles with dynamite!” asserted Ned, exultantly. “There’s another!”
“Do you think that will help?” queried Hal, doubtfully.
“Of course,” assured Ned. “It’s the only way. It will keep the fire from spreading, and make it burn down low where they can put it out with the hose. See? They’re blowing up the piles on the South Beaufort side. Then if they stop the fire from getting past the open space they’ve got it! Who cares for the lumber, so long as the houses don’t catch! And it can’t come this way, for the tracks are too wide, here, and south of it they can blow up more piles and stop it.”
Ned’s tones were so confident that Hal brightened, and said nothing farther about leaving.
Besides, new distractions occurred. Over the railroad bridge thundered a locomotive, twitching behind it a single flat car, and whistling long and shrill.