As he spoke a cloud of sparks and hissing embers flew about them, driven from the burning end of the barn by a puff of wind.
“Don’t quit!” urged Rob, as they hesitated; “no Boy Scout ever quits. We’ve tackled this job; let’s see it through.”
His words put heart into the somewhat scared boys, and once more they bent their efforts to dragging out the machine. This time they managed to run it fairly beyond the danger line, and it was as well that they did so at that moment, for the feeble stream thrown by the hand-engine had had little effect on the flames, and by now one entire end of the wagon house had been burned away.
By this time, also, a big crowd had gathered, and as Rob and his companions, scorched and singed, stood triumphantly by the side of the machine they had rescued, they could hear angry shouts and the sounds of an argument coming from the direction of the engine. Elbowing their way through the throng, many members of which sought to detain and congratulate them, the lads found that the regular firemen had arrived and were attempting to wrest the hand-brakes from the Boy Scouts.
The boys were, somewhat naturally, protesting. Just as Rob and his friends came up, one big, hulking fellow laid hands on little Joe Digby and was about to hurl him backward out of the crowd.
“You young monkey!” he exclaimed; “you kids had no business to steal our engine!”
“Good thing they did,” howled the crowd. “If they hadn’t the whole village might have been burned by the time you fellows got on your uniforms.”
“You’re all right at a firemen’s picnic, but no good at a fire,” shouted someone.
“’Ray for the Boy Scouts,” came another cry.
“Shut up!” roared the exasperated firemen, reddening under their shiny helmets, all glistening with paint and decorations.