“I wish they would hurry up and start in,” the old man began again, after an interval of silence; “they take a long time getting to work.”
“Well, you know this isn’t a job to be hurried,” declared Hank.
“No, indeed,” stammered Frank Reade nervously, “it’s better to do it safely and have no blunders. If it was found out that we had attempted such a thing it would be our ruin. What will we do with Witherbee when we get him?”
“Drop him down a shaft some place; we want to be sure he doesn’t follow us to the mine,” said Hank.
The occupants of the touring car were silent for a time, and then suddenly old Barr held up a finger.
“Hark!” he exclaimed.
Very faintly the uproar that accompanied the outbreak of the fire was borne to their ears.
Suddenly a brisk little puff of the night wind of the prairie blew toward them. On its wings were borne the cry for which they had been waiting:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
“They’ve done it,” grinned old Luther Barr.