When they reached the ground Mr. Finkler was acting like a madman. Once he made a dash at the door, but the heat sent him reeling back, gasping and blinded.
“My horses!” he shouted wildly. “My horses! Get them out! Why don’t the engines come?”
Mr. Talcott gathered a dozen of the boys together and hurried to the door at the end of the barn. This was reached by a sloping drive and was big enough to admit a loaded hay-rick. The two big sliding doors were tightly secured from inside and a hunt for the axe was begun. Will, the farm hand, was soon found, but what he had done with the axe he couldn’t remember. Finally it was discovered outside the cow door and Mr. Talcott set to work with it. Those doors were strongly built, though, and it was some time before an entrance was effected. When the shattered doors were pushed back the interior was already foul with smoke, while above them the flames were licking greedily at the great piles of hay.
“Look for some way into the stable end,” shouted Mr. Talcott as they rushed in. The middle of the floor was clear, but on either side stood hay-ricks, wagons, mowing machines and such. A wooden partition divided this end of the barn from the stable beyond and never a door was to be found.
“The man that designed this barn must have been an idiot,” muttered Mr. Talcott as he searched about in the smoke and dim glare. “See anything, Phillips?”
“There’s a small window here, sir.”
“That’s no good to us. How do you suppose they get hay to the horses?” he asked disgustedly.
“Probably shove it down through chutes from above, sir,” suggested Jack. “Give me a leg-up, Sam, and I’ll have a peek through the window.”
Sam obeyed.