A fire in a small country village, always a dread catastrophe, is much more serious in the winter, especially when any wind is stirring; and in the realization of these facts, the street was soon alive with men and women hurrying to the scene of the conflagration.
When they learned, however, that it was the home of the crippled veteran, many of them turned back.
All Paul’s friends, together with his father, had started towards the scene, as soon as they knew where the fire was; and as Mr. Martin met several men whom he knew, returning, he asked:
“Where are you going? Is the fire out, or what?”
“Oh, it’s nothing but old Jed Brown’s shanty,” retorted one of them.
“That doesn’t make any difference. You ought to be willing to help Jed as quickly as anyone else. Besides, there’s quite a wind, and if we don’t check the blaze, it may spread. Now turn around and come back with me.”
As Mr. Martin was a person of importance and influence in Rivertown, the men whom he had stopped and ordered to go back quickly obeyed.
When they arrived at the head of the street whence they could see the veteran’s little house, they all realized that it would be impossible to save it, for, though it had been a short fifteen minutes since the alarm had been sounded, the house was a seething mass of flames.
Frantically men were working with shovels, throwing the snow which they scooped up onto the leaping tongues of fire, but without any result.
Rising high into the air, the sparks were borne in all directions, and when an unusually strong gust of wind swirled down the bluff, the burning brands were carried from the doomed house.