“They'll be here. It's not much more'n a minute since George signaled.”
“There's some more of the boys, I think.”
“I can't see much—this light's in my eyes. It's no use trying to reach it. Here, let's wet down these here piles. That's good. Now hold her there.”
“Gettin' pretty hot here, Cap'n.”
“Can't help that. It'll be hotter before we get through. Have an eye out to see that we don't get cut off behind. Here come the buckets.”
“Here you are, boys—this way! How many is they of you?”
“I dunno—about a dozen, I guess. The boys is comin' right in.”
“Form a line here along the road. If you keep your clothes wet there's no danger, I guess. Stir along, now. Mr. Halloran come?”
“Not yet. Mr. Crosman's couplin' up the yard hose an' he'll be along here'n a minute.”
The fire was giving rise to the wind; the wind was lashing the fire. The crackling was loud now; the roar made it hard to talk. As they worked and watched a gust of wind came sweeping across the harbour, and catching up the top row of boards from an exposed pile, it tossed them, burning, high in the air. The sparks were flying high, coursing the length of the yards, some falling far beyond. Men were pouring into the yards. Somewhere across the river the town fire-engine was clanging out toward the bridge.