“Great Scott, I forgot all about that,” exclaimed Rob. “Come on, fellows, let’s get Paul’s machine out of there. I guess we can save it yet.”
It looked doubtful, however, if this could be accomplished. The flames now were leaping savagely up, but as yet they were confined to one end of the building. The wind, though, was driving them angrily forward, devouring the old dried timbers with the greed of a ferocious monster.
“Open those doors!” shouted Rob, and the next instant the big wooden bar had fallen from the portals as Paul unlocked the stout padlock holding them. As they swung open, the boys could see the machine standing in the centre of the place, illumined with a red glare. The heat that drove out was as intense as if they had opened the doors of a bake oven, but they didn’t flinch. Led by Rob and Dale Harding, they plunged into the fiery place. The heat seemed as if it would split their skins and singe their hair, but they paid little attention to it in the excitement of the moment.
“Lay hold of those runners, boys,” cried Dale, “we’ll drag her out that way.”
“Good scheme,” panted Rob, bending over and seizing hold. But the machine was heavy and refused to budge.
“We need a rope,” suggested Merritt.
“No time to get it,” panted Rob; “come on, try again.”
They strained till their muscles cracked, and this time the bulky contrivance slipped forward a little. Working with might and main, they had almost succeeded in getting it to a place of safety when there was a sudden shout from Paul.
“The gasolene. That tank’s full of it.”
“Great Scott, it will blow up!” cried Dale Harding.