"Feyther, feyther, Farmer Trenchard's ricks be afire!"
Noakes, in a state of great agitation, rushed to the door in his apron, glanced up the hill, and cried, excitedly:
"Fire, fire! Run and rouse up the neighbours, Josiah. 'Tis a matter o' hundreds o' pounds. Fire!"
The boy set off through the village at a frantic run, shrieking "Fire!" at the top of his voice. Out rushed the baker in his singlet straight from the oven; the butcher in blue with his chopper; the smith from his forge, rolling up his leather apron; the agricultural labourers, smoking their after-tea pipes; the village constable in his shirt-sleeves. The little street filled with women and children, the latter flocking to the shed where the village fire manual was kept, and towards which the tradesmen, members of the volunteer fire brigade, were hastening. Waiting only to don their helmets, the men dragged the clumsy machine forth, Noakes being the most energetic, and began to drag it up the hill, the children following in a swarm.
"It do seem out a'ready, sonnies," said the smith, before they had gone many yards.
"That's true as gospel," said the baker. "Do 'ee think I med go back to my dough, neighbours?"
They came to a halt. It was the interval during which Eves and Templeton were overhauling and restocking the machine.
"'Tis a mercy for Trenchard," added the smith.
"A merciful Providence," murmured Noakes, the lines of anxiety disappearing from his face. "Run up along and tell neighbour Trenchard how we all do heartily rejoice, Josiah."
The boy started, but the moment after he had turned the first corner he came rushing back with his eyes like saucers.