“There’s logic in that,” Rip replied.
“You sound like Pee-wee Harris,” Westy said.
Two hours later Westy awakened in the dark cabin. The breathing of the rest sounded mechanical as he listened. He could hear the brook so plain in the silence. It was tireless, he thought, day and night flowing on and on, summer and winter. It made him feel tired to think of it.
Something pungent seemed to strike his nostrils like that of burning wood.
“Now, what could that be, I wonder?” he mused. “Must be some embers in the fireplace.”
He got out of his bunk and tip-toed to the fireplace. It was stone cold. He went to the door and opened it softly. The acrid odor was not to be mistaken. He went in and got his clothes on.
A few minutes later as Westy sprinted along the trail he saw the dark heavens ahead of him outlined in a dull red glow, and through the trees he could distinguish little red sparks shooting into the air.
The wind was blowing southwest—straight in the direction of the cottage! He ran on. With each few steps he could see the glow in the sky getting brighter and gradually the sparks lengthened into flames and the flames lengthened into shafts of red fire, leaping into the air like whirling dervishes.
Westy fairly leaped ahead, too, wondering if Lola and her grandmother were aware of it. He hadn’t any time to go back and arouse the rest—he had to go on! They must need help or they would be needing it very soon.
At last he struck the trail down to the cottage, but stopped as he viewed the strange freak of fate before him.