“Where are the boys with the hand engine?” demanded Mr. Martin, when no sight or sound was there of the volunteer fire department. “Aren’t they coming?”
“They’re stuck. One of the runners on the front bob gave in,” informed a man who had just joined the constantly-increasing fringe of men and women whose figures stood out in prominent silhouette against the lurid flames.
“Then we must get busy and form bucket brigades to wet down the roofs of those two houses right alongside!” exclaimed Mr. Martin, pointing to two large white residences, one of which was about one hundred feet from the burning house, and the other almost directly across the not over-wide street.
“Come on, men! If those houses catch, the fire will sweep right through the town! A quarter of an hour’s work now will save them; but if we wait very long it will be too late.”
Aroused by the words of the town Nestor, the men and boys lost no time in rushing to each of the residences; and while some of them went into the kitchens and manned the pumps, others formed a line to pass the pails, which were contributed by everybody; while others of the men who had placed ladders against the eaves, mounted the roof, where they sat astraddle of the ridgepole, dousing the embers which were falling on the roofs with greater frequency.
Suddenly, the rumor spread among those still watching the fire that the crippled veteran was in his house.
Hysterical women wrung their hands and begged the men to rush into the flames and rescue the helpless man. Such an act, however, would have been the height of folly, and none of them made the attempt, knowing full well that were he inside he would have met his death long before.
OTHERS FORMED A LINE TO PASS THE PAILS.