“Fire!” shouted the stableman.
His cry rang through the night, and in a few seconds the small prairie town was ringing with it. The flames gained rapid headway. They ate through the sun-dried timbers of the stable as if it had been made of paper.
The stableman and his friends rushed madly about getting out horses and rigs to places of safety. As for the boys and Bart they seized hold of the aeroplane and dragged it beyond reach of the flames. They then ran out the auto. This done they returned and helped the stableman. Soon all the stock and valuable buggies were out of the place and it was a roaring mass of savage flames. There was no fire department in Gitalong, so the inhabitants, instead of wasting their efforts on trying to extinguish the blaze with buckets of water, devoted their attention to wetting down adjoining roofs in order to prevent the flames spreading. The boys were so busy attending to this work that they didn’t stop to notice what had become of their companions. They had had, however, a moment to exchange a hasty word with Billy, Lathrop and old man Joyce, who had hastened from the hotel at the first cry of alarm.
The flames were about out and the barn was reduced to a smouldering heap of ashes before they had time to look about them.
“Why, where’s Mr. Joyce?” suddenly exclaimed Bart.
“He was here a minute ago,” rejoined Frank. “Have you seen him, Billy?”
“Not for the last ten minutes,” replied the other. “What can have become of him?”
“I guess he got tired and went back to the hotel,” suggested Harry.
“That must be it. Come on, let’s go and see if he is all right.”
They started off, but on the way were halted by the stableman.