The others gazed wildly from the windows as a long sheet of flame forked up into the darkness of the night.
“Boom! Boom! Bang!” came again and a mighty Fourth of July display glittered back of the dark firs fringing the shore. By this time, the Pasha, grabbing a large fire-extinguisher, tore down the stairs and went headlong down to the beach. The rest of the maskers were not slow to follow so that before the third explosion sounded they all were near enough to see by the reflection of the flare that a blazing launch was stranded on Isola Bella and already, like a torch, one of the fir trees was burning fiercely.
The danger was evident to all for even the youngest Islander knew that if once the firs caught fire, the entire island was doomed; not only the trees and buildings but also the peat-like soil would burn off of the rocks.
The frantic Pasha, minus turban and sunburst and with only one Turkish shawl trailing from his shoulders, plied the chemicals incessantly while the Tin Knight and the dusky Major-Domo of the buffet tore down blazing fragments of neighbouring trees and the erst-while musicians bravely exerted their muscular strength in pushing off the burning launch from the wharf. And they finally succeeded but at the cost of hair and hands. Uncle Tom, Yellow Kid and the Two Bears quickly formed a bucket brigade of all the other maskers, and with their aid the last spark burning on the island was deluged and extinguished.
After the terrific battle and excitement with the fire had calmed down a forlorn group were discovered huddled on the rocks near the wharf. The owner of the doomed launch gazed hopelessly at the burning boat while his wife cried pitifully by his side.
Their story was soon told. The man was returning from Belfast with three barrels of gasoline on board. The gasoline caught fire—how, he could not tell.
Uncle Bill concluded that a back-fire from the engine ignited the fumes from a leaky tank and of course it took but a moment to wrap the entire launch in flame.
The man and his wife had taken to their small boat as soon as the fire burst forth, knowing of the awful danger incurred from the presence of the three barrels of gasoline. Even though they had escaped before the explosions, both of them were burned, the man’s hands being severely blistered.
It was long after midnight before the burns and blisters had been given first-aid treatment; then a smudged and frazzled Masquerade Party were free to go to bed.
The water-soaked Yellow Kid escorted a smoke-streaked Pierrette and a skeleton Pine—nothing now but a few threads and sticks left of the green plumes—to the Orion and home. Thankful indeed, were they that the fire had left them the Orion in which to go home.