"Where?"
The half-witted lad passed his hand across his eyes.
"With Mickey," he said.
"An' what were you an' Mickey doin'?"
"Lots of things, lots, lots, lots. Little fires creep, creep, creepin' on the ground," he moved his hands waveringly backward and forward as though to show the progress of the flames, "then put them out quick, so!" he stamped his foot on the ground.
"Does he mean a forest fire, Rifle-Eye?" queried Wilbur, alert at the very mention of fire.
"No, no, no," interrupted Ben; "little bit fires. Pile burn, burn hot, grass catch fire, put out grass."
"You mean," said the mountaineer, "that you an' Mickey were burnin' up brush?"
"Yes, brush all in piles, burn."
"It's a pretty risky business," said Rifle-Eye, "this burnin' brush in the late spring, but Mickey's right enough to have had Ben along. He's one o' the best fire-fighters that ever happened. He never knows enough to quit."