Prawle’s head rolled over on his shoulder like that of a dead man.
“In Heaven’s name, what can be the matter with the man? He looks like death. Has he had another fit?”
It may be easy to ask questions, even in a moment of intense excitement, but it certainly is not so easy to find an answer to them when the object to whom they are addressed turns a deaf ear to our importunities.
“This is terrible!” exclaimed the boy, the perspiration oozing out on his forehead. “I must drag him out of here.”
Gideon Prawle hung a dead-weight in his arms, but Jack was strong enough to handle him easily enough.
He laid him down in the damp grass a short distance from the surgery, and then started in to put out the fast increasing flames.
There was a water-butt at one corner of the building, and somebody, probably Meyer, had left a horse bucket beside it that afternoon.
Jack seized the bucket, pushed the cover off the barrel, and filling the implement with rain water rushed into the blazing surgery and dashed the water upon the flames.
This he repeated as fast as he could traverse the short space between the barrel and the room.
Fearing he might not be able single-handed to subdue the flames he yelled “Fire!” lustily each time he came out.