It was the gardener’s voice, and the lad ran to the window.
“Yes, I heard. Where is it?”
“Don’t know yet, sir. Think it’s the rectory.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came from Vane’s door. “Hi, Vane, lad, I’ll dress as quickly as I can. You run on and see if you can help. Whatever you do, try and save the rector’s books.”
Vane grunted and went on dressing, finding everything wrong in the dark, and taking twice as long as usual to get into his clothes.
As he dressed, he kept on going to the window to look out, but not to obtain any information, for the gardener had run back at a steady trot, his steps sounding clearly on the hard road, while the bell kept up its incessant clamour, the blows of the clapper following one another rapidly as ever, and with the greatest of regularity. But thrust his head out as far as he would, there was no glare visible, as there had been the year before when the haystack was either set on fire or ignited spontaneously from being built up too wet. Then the whole of the western sky was illumined by the flames, and patches of burning hay rose in great flakes high in air, and were swept away by the breeze.
“Dressed, uncle. Going down,” cried Vane, as he walked into the passage.
“Shan’t be five minutes, my boy.”
“Take care, Vane, dear,” came in smothered and suggestive tones. “Don’t go too near the fire.”
“All right, aunt,” shouted the boy, as he ran downstairs, and, catching up his cap, unfastened the front door, stepped out, ran down the path, darted out from the gate, and began to run toward where the alarm bell was being rung.