He made his way along the line of the fire. Here in the thick timber it still burned slowly and feebly. He could trace the line of fire far ahead, and it seemed to have advanced with remarkable evenness. Nowhere could be seen a header of flame jutting out far in advance of the main line.
"If the wind doesn't rise," he muttered to himself, "we're going to make it."
He went on, trying to locate the other end of the fire. Behind him he heard Lew halloing. Before he could turn to answer, an echo came back from the mountain in front of him.
"If only that were a real voice," muttered Charley to himself.
Then he stood stock-still. Shout after shout came ringing in his ears. "It is a real voice," he cried. "The fire crew is coming."
A moment later a dozen forms became visible in the smoke. They were running along the edge of the fire, evidently trying to determine where to begin their attack on it. At their head was the forester. He came directly toward Charley, but gave no sign of recognition. Nor, could Charley have seen himself, would he have wondered at it. With his face blackened by smoke and caked with blood from innumerable little cuts and scratches, his hands grimy and almost raw, and his clothes torn in a hundred places, Charley could hardly have been recognized by his own mother.
"How far across the valley does this fire extend?" asked the forester.
"You are almost at the end of it, sir," replied Charley.
"It's making a tremendous smoke for such a little blaze, then," said the forester.
He turned to his men. "Get right at it and beat it out," he ordered. "This is all there is to it."