“Know him?” scoffed Alf. “Why, they’re as thick as thieves, aren’t you, Dan? I wouldn’t be surprised if they called each other by their first names.”
“Well, where’s the story?” asked his brother impatiently.
“Coming right along. John T. has one son, a kid of about—how old, Dan? Fourteen? Yes. And of course the old gentleman thinks a whole lot of him. Well, one day last Fall our hero—” with a bow to Dan—“was walking through the woods to the beach by the path that leads along John T’s fence when he heard a dickens of a yowling; sounded like a dog having its tail cut off. So our hero investigates.”
“Cut out the ‘hero’ business,” begged Dan.
“Pardon me! Mr. Vinton investigates and finds that on the other side of the fence is a play-house and that the dog is shut up in the play-house and that the play-house is on fire. I say, Dan, it’s always been a mystery to me how that thing got on fire.”
“It was funny,” responded Dan carelessly.
“Well, anyhow,” continued Alf, “Dan climbs the fence and finds this young Pennimore kid, breaking into the house with an axe to rescue the dog. He tries to make him behave but the kid insists on rescuing Fido. So in he goes. By that time the house is full of flames and smoke and such things. Dan waits a minute and the kid doesn’t come out again. Then Dan ties a handkerchief around his mouth, girds up his loins and dashes into the seething cauldron—”
“That’s water,” interrupted Tom disgustedly. “You mean ‘the sea of flames.’”
“All right, Tom; dashes into the sea of flames and pulls out the kid and the dog, too, and gets nicely baked in the process.”