In their faces blew the cooler air of a clearing.
A few yards farther they halted.
“I can’t see a thing. Can’t open them,” declared Jack, as they stood rubbing their eyes, and recovering their breath.
“Neither can I. Give me your hand, and we’ll soon fix it. There is a path here down to the water.” Feeling with his foot, Alex found it, and pulling Jack after, hastened down, and in another moment both were on their stomachs on the river-bank, their faces deep in the cooling water.
Ten minutes later, greatly revived, but with faces and hands intensely smarting from their burns, the boys replenished the cans of water—for they still had a two miles’ run through the smother of smoke—and lifted the car onto the main-line rails.
As they did so, from far to the west came a whistle.
“A train! Can’t we stop her?” suggested Jack.
“They’d never see us in the smoke.”
“Then, say, let us throw the old car across the tracks, so they’ll strike it. They would probably stop to see what it was.”
“It might derail her. No. I’ve got it. Come on, and get the car started so she’ll cross the bridge, and I’ll explain.”