"Wot's that?"
Realf felt the hay and sniffed like Reuben.
"Wot's that?" his father-in-law repeated.
Realf went white to the lips, and said nothing.
"I'll tell you wot it is, then!" cried Reuben—"it's bad stacking. This hay äun't bin präaperly dried—it's bin stacked damp, and them ricks have gone alight o' themselves, bust up from inside. It's your doing, this here is, and I'll mäake you answer fur it, surelye."
"I—I—the hay seemed right enough."
"Maybe it seems right enough to you now?"—and Reuben pointed to the blazing stacks.
Realf opened his lips, but the words died on them. His eyes looked wild and haggard in the jigging light; he groaned and turned away. At the same moment a pillar of fire shot up from the roof of the Dutch barn.
The flying sparks had soon done their work. Fires sprang up at a distance from the ricks, sometimes in two places at once. Everyone worked desperately, but the water supply was slow, and though occasionally these sporadic fires were put out, generally they burned fiercely. Wisps of blazing hay began to fly about the yard, lodging in roofs and crannies. By the time the fire engine arrived from Rye, the whole place was alight except the dwelling-house and the oasts.