The squire followed him, and, seeing them enter the dark doorway, Dick and Tom followed.
It was a long low building with room for a dozen horses; but only two were there, standing right at the end, where they were haltered to the rough mangers, and snorted and whinnied with fear.
Each man ran to the head of a horse, and cut the halters, lit by the glow that came through a great hole burned in the thatched roof, from which flakes of fire kept falling, while the smoke curled round and up the walls and beneath the roof in a silent threatening way.
It was easy enough to unloose the trembling beasts;
but that was all that could be done, for the horses shivered and snorted, and refused to stir.
Both shouted and dragged at the halters; but the poor beasts seemed to be paralysed with fear; and as the moments glided by, the hole in the roof was being eaten out larger and larger, the great flakes of burning thatch falling faster, and a pile of blazing rafter and straw beginning to cut off retreat from the burning place.
“It’s of no use,” cried Farmer Tallington, after trying coaxing, main force, and then blows. “The roof will be down directly. Run, boys, run!”
“You are coming too, father?” cried Tom.
“Yes, and you, father?” cried Dick.