Probably some coals had fallen out of the stove door when the last stick was put in, and had been smouldering on the floor ever since. Now the floor, the sink, the drop-table, and the sitting-room door were in flames.
What should be done?
Preston reflected. He could not write a very deep "compersition;" but he was just the boy to have his wits about him when they were needed.
"The first thing is to get Flaxie out of the house," thought he. "The flames are spreading to the bedroom."
In a twinkling he had her in his arms, rolled her in a shawl, and set her on the front door-stone.
"Don't cry, Ducky Dilver," said he, locking her out. "I'll come after you if you'll be good."
Then, leaving the sleepy child sobbing in utter bewilderment, Preston rushed back, and dipped water from the barrel to put out the flames.
It was a hard fight for a small boy. He could not help wondering at himself to feel how strong he was. Pailful after pailful he dashed on; and, when the barrel gave out, he turned to the pump in the sink. Ah, but the sink door was ablaze! As fast as the fire was quenched in one place, it broke out in another; but Preston mastered it after awhile.