"Hallo, Dutchy, Dutchy!" said a voice.
But Dutchy, the old one-handed German watchman, did not answer. Pete heard him who spoke break out swearing.
"Goldarn the old idiot, I believe he ain't here," said the voice. It was the voice of Long Mac, a man to be feared, a strong man, a keen and quick man, a man with brains and skill and grit.
Pete heard him enter the Mill and run upstairs, and he knew that in another moment Mac would know someone had been there, although old Dutchy had done what he should not have done, and had left the Mill to go to the other fire. There was no time to lose. He went silently for the canoe, and found it, got into it, and worked his way to the space under the Shingle Mill. Now the light of the burning house was bright upon the lip of the river, running on the first of the ebb against a warm Chinook wind.
He heard Mac burst out into blasphemy. He had found no Dutchy, but cut hose instead. And then old Dutchy came running. He heard Mac curse him.
"What did I tell you, you old fool? Didn't I say look out lively here! That swine's about now, by God! He's cut the hose, maybe lighted the Mill already!"
"Ach, mein Gott, mein Gott," said Dutchy, "I haf not been afay von minute."
"Oh, to hell," said Mac.
He found the capsized buckets and burst out again. He spoke rapidly, and Pete, as he clutched at a pile, caught but a word or two.
"Run—police—boat!"