“Bah!” said Uncle Jeff, who had a better view of the state of affairs. “Take a long breath and follow me.”
In his excitement Stan had just one glimpse of the office interior, where towards the window a great bonfire-like heap was blazing away, licking the side about the opening, and forming a column of fire and smoke which went wreathing and darting out, many-tongued, to rise high in the night air, spreading out towards the wharf, and making the water of the river beyond gleam, while a busy hum of many voices greeted them from beyond the flame and smoke.
“We can do nothing, Jeff,” cried Stan’s father; “only escape for our lives. It is madness to try and do anything.”
“Then let’s be mad, old fellow.—Bah! Nonsense! The draught carries all the fire from us, and we can breathe easily. Rouse up, man!”
“I am roused up,” cried Stan’s father angrily; “but I must think of my boy.”
“Don’t!” roared Uncle Jeff; “he’s big enough to think for himself.—Now, Stan, out through this door and get a bucket of water. Do as I do.—Come on, Oliver.”
“But the ceiling’s catching. The place will be all in flames directly.”
“Of course it will if we stand still and watch it. Come on.”
He led the way through the door before him, making a sudden rush past the blazing heap, and the other two followed, each lifting down a bucket of water from the dozen hanging in a row on the pegs where Uncle Jeff’s foresight had had them placed ready for such an emergency. As soon as he had seized his pair of buckets he stepped back through the brightly illuminated door; and as Stan quickly followed him, the two stood together, the boy feeling the scorching glow of the flames upon his face.
“Let me do the throwing, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff calmly, as he set one bucket on the floor. “Stand back, and look out for the choking steam.”