With fingers that trembled as if their owner was palsied, Jim Cassell handed his son some matches. The latter took one, bent low over the pile he had collected and struck the lucifer.
A yellow sputter of flame followed, and the next instant he was holding it to the pile of litter which had been previously soaked by the contents of the Norwegian's can.
But before he could accomplish his purpose and set fire to the pile of odds and ends saturated to double inflammability by the kerosene the Norwegian had carried, there came a startling interruption.
There was a knock at the door and a girlish voice cried:
"Roy! Roy, let me in!"
"Furies!" exclaimed Dan Cassell under his breath. "It's one of those girls."
"Come on. Let's get away quick!" exclaimed his father, trembling from nervous agitation.
"Not before I set a match to this," exclaimed Dan Cassell viciously.
He touched the match to the pile and the flames leaped up.
"Now for our getaway," he cried, and the three fire-bugs ran for the window by which they had made their entrance.