“Yes, and the small bits of furniture, boys,” cried the squire. “Now, my lads, ready!”
There was a general shout from the men, who fell into their places with the promptitude that always follows when they have a good leader.
“Get all you can out in case,” shouted the squire; “but we’re going to save the house.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the men as they heard this bold assertion, which the squire supplemented by saying between his teeth, “Please God!”
“Bring up that ladder,” cried the squire—“two of them.”
These were planted against the end of the house, and none too soon, for the corner nearest the burning stacks was beginning to blaze furiously, and the fire steadily running up, while a peculiar popping and crackling began to be heard as the flames attacked the abundant ivy which mounted quite to the chimney-stack.
“Ho! ho! ho! ho!” came now from the front of the cart-shed in a regular bellowing cry.
“What is it, wench—what is it?” cried Farmer Tallington, as he hurried out of the burning house, laden with valuables, which he handed to his quiet business-like wife.
“My best Sunday frock! Oh, my best Sunday frock!” sobbed the red-faced servant lass.
“Yes, and oh my stacks! and oh my farm!” cried her master, as he ran back into the house after a glance at the squire, who, in the midst of a loud cheering, stood right up with one foot on the ladder, one on the thatched roof, and sent the first bucket of water, with a good spreading movement, as far as he could throw it, and handed back the bucket.