The feet of running men pounded along the highway. Somebody cried, in clarion tones, “It's Tasp Britt's new house!”
The Squire ran into the road, and Bangs followed.
The notary hailed a little group of men who came rushing from the direction of the main part of the village. “Why aren't you bringing the tub? Fetch Hecla! Quick, men!”
“She's gone!” panted one of the group.
“Gone?”
“There wasn't any wagon left behind, Squire, and they had to haul that gold. They hove it into Hecly's water tank and formed a guard, and she's been a whole half hour gone!”
At that juncture a man came running to them from the direction of the fire. The Squire recognized him as the boss of the carpenters. “Mr. Britt is in that house. I saw him through a window. But it's a furnace from top to bottom.”
The Squire opened his mouth as if query, urgently demanding utterance, had pried apart his jaws. “How do you think the fire—” But he promptly closed his mouth and set his lips tightly. He shook his head with the manner of one who did not require information. Then he turned and hurried to his house.
Colonel Wincott and Xoa were on the porch, lighted by the great, red torch whose radiance was flung afar by the reflector aid of the fog.
“It's Britt's house—and Britt is in it,” he told them. “Colonel, your man Friday had over many times one text that fits this thing. 'Can a man take fire into his bosom, and his clothing not be burned?'”