He drew up the blind, and threw up his window, when we both looked down at what seemed to be the dying out of a tremendous conflagration—dying out, save in one place, where there was a furious rush of light right up into the air, with sparks flying and flickering tongues of flame darting up and sinking down again, while the red and tawny-yellow smoke rolled away.
“On fire, Cob!” he said quietly. “Yes, the town’s on fire, but in the proper way. Arrowfield is a fiery place—all furnaces. There’s nothing the matter, lad.”
“But there! There!” I cried, “where the sparks are roaring and rushing out with all that flame.”
“There! Oh! That’s nothing, my boy. The town is always like this.”
“But you don’t see where I mean,” I cried, still doubting, and pointing down to our right.
“Oh, yes! I do, my dear boy. That is where they are making the Bessemer steel.”