The smell of burning which he had noticed was not from Pickett’s rubbish fires, but from his own bungalow.
Through the thick smoke he saw that one of the window-curtains was blazing. All his papers which he had left scattered on table and chairs under the window were a charred heap. The writing-table was on fire, also the wicker chair near it, where Phyllis had thrown her hat on that memorable afternoon. He ran to the kitchen, shouting for Davis, and, of course, getting no reply. One or two cans of water from the well stood near the scullery sink. He took these and dashed them upon the burning furniture.
Then the hopelessness of the situation faced him. The place would burn down unless he could get help, for the drawing of water from the well was a long process.
He dashed out of the house and across the field towards the White House, and going to the side of the little wood shouted for Alvin.
Alvin quickly appeared, still carrying his lantern and calling: “Quit yelling! I’m coming!” He ran through the garden to Philip, whose voice he had at once recognized.
“Anything wrong?” he inquired.
“For God’s sake come and help me, my place is on fire!” cried Philip hoarsely. “That fool, Davis, has left the place, and it is on fire!”
“I’ve tackled worse fires, I’m thinking,” said the Colonial, putting on a speed which seemed almost miraculous for a man of his bulk.
The fire had got well ahead in these few minutes, and the smoke was so suffocating that it seemed almost impossible to do anything. But the Colonial set to work. He tore up the Turkey carpet and laid it over the burning mass—of what he did not know, and called to Philip to shut the front door.
But Philip did not answer. So jaded had he been, that the smoke overcame him, and he lay unconscious on his back, where he had fallen, just outside the dining-room door.