“And it was only yesterday,” said Barry, in a voice of wonder, “that we were worried because we’d killed Mr. Merritt’s pig! Doesn’t it seem queer that it ever seemed to matter!”
“Poor old Mr. Merritt hasn’t a pig left,” Robin said. “Dick Merritt told me when I took him a drink that they had all died of the heat and smoke.”
“By Jove!” said Barry, staring. “And I’ve never had a chance to own up about the one we finished. Well, I can do it to-morrow—if any of us are alive.”
“Oh, we’ll be alive, I expect,” said Robin. But in her own heart she did not feel so sure.
It seemed strange to find themselves at the creek, with nothing to do. The day had been all toil and agony: now there was nothing for them but the last effort ahead—of saving their own lives. They all plunged into the water, rejoicing in its cool touch on their suffering bodies: the little boys kicked and scrambled in the shallows, with shrill cries of delight. The hole that they had chosen was wide, and bare of overhanging trees; there was a little rocky island in the middle, and here they placed the basket of food that they had carried, and covered it with a wet rug, held down by a slab of stone. And then there was nothing to do.
Nothing but to watch. Already Hill Farm was only a misty outline through the smoke. Behind it the roar of the fire drove on the hurricane, each moment drawing nearer: embers fell and sizzled on their soaked felt hats, and spluttered as they struck the water. They saw fleeing animals, kangaroos and wallabies, that leaped past them, blind with terror: near at hand a splendid crimson lory suddenly flashed downwards through the smoke and fell dead beside them. The very air was full of terror and death.
Then, for the first time, behind the smoke they saw the wall of flame that leaped down from the hills like a hungry animal. High above the trees it towered in rushing tongues and solid roaring sheets, while the hills shook and echoed with the noise of crashing timber. Nearer it came—nearer yet . . . . . .
A shrill, pitiful sound pierced the gale—a horse’s neigh that was half a scream. Robin glanced round sharply.
“Oh, it’s Roany!” she cried. “He’s trapped in the next paddock—Dick Merritt was using him. I’ll run and open the gate, Mother—it will give him a chance, at least. I can’t let him burn!”
“Robin—come back!” Mrs. Hurst’s agonized cry was lost in the screaming wind. Barry pushed past her in the water.