Meanwhile, with fresh wet cloths to protect their faces from the blistering heat, some of the camp boys were swinging axes, clearing a broad fire lane, while others had dug a deep trench and were filling it with water to defeat the creeping flames.
“They—they’ll make it,” Florence breathed. “The wind is falling.”
A moment later she, too, was obliged to hold a damp cloth before her eyes. A sudden fierce gust had thrown a shower of sparks on the deck of their boat.
“Quick!” Dave shouted. “Buckets and mops! We must wet down the deck.”
Five minutes later they were breathing more easily. The fire had reached the last tree standing before the lane that had been cut to stop the flames.
“But will it stop there,” the girl questioned anxiously, “or will it jump the gap? If it does, we’re lost.”
Slowly but surely, as if by a miracle, the flames died down. With a shout of victory on their lips, a troop of workers sprang at the charred tree trunks which still stood flaming and threatening at any moment to fall across the gap. With sparks falling all about them, with smoking garments and parched faces, the boys hacked and pushed until the last fiery pillar lay flat upon the earth, its burning tinder extinguished. Only then did all join in a hoarse shout of triumph, Dave sounding the boat siren to heighten the note of rejoicing.
“Just think,” there was a suggestion of tears in Florence’s eyes, “Grandfather’s boat is worth fifteen thousand dollars, and we might have lost it!”
“It might have been blown to splinters of wood and a mass of twisted steel,” Dave agreed. “We should be thankful.”
“We’ll go ashore and hold a jubilee,” Florence exclaimed.