“Good eyes, Monkey!” exclaimed Jack Durham. “That it is.”
“Thank goodness!” muttered Billy, who was breathing hard with the great exertions he had been forced to make all this while.
It turned out to be as they said. The cut-off road by which the Heffners were accustomed to come from their farm whenever they started for town lay before them.
“This is something like it,” commented Ned Twyford, as they struck out at a considerably faster gait, once they reached the open ground.
“I should say it was,” Billy said, as though his every word might be uttered in a spirit of sincere thanksgiving.
“We’re getting closer to the fire every step we take, Hugh!” announced Ralph, who had been noting all things.
Hugh knew that as well as anybody. It had been giving him considerable anxiety for several minutes past. Not that he believed there was cause to fear for the safety of himself and comrades, because that had not as yet entered into his calculations. He was thinking of the poor woman, who, alone in that burning forest, with her little children, might be striving to fight the onrush of those greedy flames, eager to lick up her scanty property.
The very thought caused Hugh to start off on a jog-trot. He was immediately copied by all the rest, even fat Billy joining in, although the effort made him pant more than ever, so that his tongue seemed to be protruding from between his teeth.
“Better stop that old trick of yours, Billy,” warned Bud Morgan, noticing this. “Remember once before how you took a tumble and bit your tongue just fierce. Some day you’ll nip off the tip entirely, let me tell you.”
“Glad you told me, Bud,” grunted Billy, who did not take offense easily. “I’d sure hate to be tongue-tied when I go to singing school, or to see the girls.”