People were running from every side. Two men from Jasper Place came puffing through the hole in the hedge, dragging a garden hose behind them, while the house servants, bare-headed and excited, swarmed out from the back veranda.
"Annie! Annie!" called Mrs. Carter as the panting horses were dragged to a standstill, "turn on the fire alarm. Go to the telephone and call the engine house."
"Simpkins has done it, ma'am," called Annie over her shoulder, as she hurried on. "Ow! What's that?" she added with a scream of astonished terror, as a red and black striped figure, with a row of ragged feathers waving in a fringe about its ears, burst from the shrubbery and butted plump against her.
"Bobby!" gasped his mother, as after a moment of shocked hesitation she recognized her son. Bobby waved his arms and set up a howl. An expression of terror was plainly visible struggling through the war-paint.
"Pete, Billy, Patrick! Quick! Quick! We can't untie him and he's burning! We didn't mean to burn him," he added quickly. "It's an accident."
"Burn what?" cried Mrs. Carter.
"Augustus," Bobby sobbed.
And to the horror-stricken group was borne a shrill falsetto wail: "Help! H-e-l-p! They're burning me at the s-t-a-k-e!"—a wail apparently of mortal anguish, though an unexcited listener would have detected in the tones more of anger than of pain.
Mrs. Brainard, with a frenzied shriek, threw away her lavender parasol and dashed in the direction of the sounds. Peter jumped from the box and overtook her. He was first upon the spot. The waggon-shed roof was a blazing mass; the straw pile beneath it was sending up a stifling cloud of blue smoke, and the dry surrounding grass was crackling in a swiftly widening circle. But in the centre of the conflagration there still remained a little oasis of green, where a young willow sapling rose defiantly from the flames. And as the smoke blew momentarily to one side, the writhing figure of Augustus came to view lashed firmly to the tree trunk, his hands above his head. With the arrival of spectators he finished struggling and assumed an expression of stoicism that would have done credit to a true Comanche.
"My boy! My boy!" shrieked Mrs. Brainard, running forward with outstretched arms, as the smoke again closed around him.