“Jerry!” Sandy called to his chum. “Quick! You get one on, too. Then, you protect me with the fire extinguisher while I swing the ax.”
Jerry James nodded. Like his friend, he garbed himself in one of the heavy black slickers, covered his nose and mouth with a soaked cloth, and preceded him into the smoke. Jerry held his extinguisher like a soldier wielding a light machine gun, spraying the flames with a constant stream of thick, white chemicals.
Behind him moved Sandy Steele, grasping his ax.
The combination that worked so well on the playing fields of their home state of California was now going into action far, far from home, and in a far more serious cause. But it was working just as well!
Choking, sputtering, staggering, all but blinded, Sandy Steele charged to the reddish blur he could see a few feet ahead of him in the smoke. Waves of heat rolled against his body and he felt himself going weak. But he lowered his head and struck on.
Once, a tongue of flame seemed about to gather in volume and leap toward him from the roaring chopping-block. Just in time, a jet of thick white liquid streamed out toward it and smothered it before it could get started. Good old Jerry, Sandy thought.
At last, he had made it to within a few feet of the burning table!
It was as close as he dared go.
Without hesitation, Sandy Steele raised his ax and brought it down, hard.
Crash!