It was something like the first hot breath of a hurricane. To and fro swung the tottering old steeple for a moment, and then there was another crash—a loud, grinding, splintering, roaring crash—as the spire reeled heavily down, lengthwise, through the shattered roof of the meeting-house! Except for Mary Ogden's cleverness, the ruins might have fallen upon the crowded Sunday-school. Jack turned and ran for home. He was a good runner, but he only just escaped the deluge following that thunderbolt.
Jack turned upon reaching the house, and as he looked back he uttered a loud exclamation, and out from the house rushed all the people who were gathered there.
"Jingo!" Jack shouted. "The old hotel's gone, sure, this time!"
The burrowing spark had smoldered slowly along, until it felt the first fanning of the rising gale. In another minute it flared as if under a blowpipe, and soon a fierce sheet of flame came bursting through the roof.
Down poured the rain; but the hottest of that blaze was roofed over, and the fire had its own way with the empty addition.
"We couldn't help if we should try," exclaimed Mr. Ogden.
"I'll put on my old clothes, any way," said Jack. "Nobody knows what's coming."
"I will, too," said his father.
Jack paused a moment, and said, from the foot of the stairs:
"The steeple's down,—right through the meeting-house. It has smashed the whole church!"