Small patches of timber were still burning but along the railroad right-of-way the flames had either died down or had been smothered by section men beating at them with wet sacks.
“Find anything of the fireman?” Tim asked one of the workers.
“Sure,” replied the railroad man, “he’s up the line a couple hundred feet.”
“Alive?”
“You bet. Got a broken leg but all right outside of that,” grinned the man as he continued beating a sack at a stubborn blaze at the base of a stump.
Tim waited for no further question but ran toward the far side of the timber lot where a group of railroad men had gathered. They were in a circle around someone on the ground. The flying reporter pushed them aside and looked down on the scorched, smoke-blackened features of Harry Benson. The fireman was in great pain from his broken leg, but he was making a brave attempt to smile.
“Hello, reporter,” he said. The words were close clipped and came from lips tense with pain.
“Hello yourself,” said Tim. “We thought you must have been thrown out into the fire after we missed you last night.” “Not me,” said the fireman. “It was a close call but I didn’t get anything more than a bad scorching. Who fired for the rest of the run?”
Tim held out his sore, cramped hands and the railroad men joined in the fireman’s laugh.
“Laugh all you want to,” smiled Tim, “but I kept that kettle of yours hot and Henshaw took her in on time.”