It isn’t to be supposed, though, that with all the favorable conditions, the club quickly finished the business in which it was now engaged. The spread of the fire might be checked, but it still burned stubbornly in the area over which it had extended. There were heaps of rubbish, dead twigs and branches and rotting leaves, which smouldered sullenly long after the flames had died down; there were patches of glowing coals, potential danger spots, should a breeze spring up. The boys worked back and forth, invading the burned-over tract, crossing and recrossing it until they were satisfied that immediate danger was over. Then came a sort of patrol for half an hour or more, with search for points threatening a fresh start for the flames. At last, Sam spoke the word for which the others had waited.
“Out! Guess we can knock off now.”
“Good—and a good job at that!” Poke declared.
“Well, I’m ready to call it half a day and quit,” said Herman. “I’ll ’fess up—I’m tired.”
“Yes; it’s hard work,” Sam observed.
Step thrust a finger almost into Poke’s face, and began to laugh.
“Ho, ho! Say, fellows, look at the boy beauty turned boy coal-heaver!”
Poke ran a grimy hand across a grimy cheek. “Huh! You’re no Spotless Town exhibit yourself,” he retorted. “You look as if your home address was ‘Care of any ash-barrel.’”
“What’s the odds, so long as we’ve put out the fire?” quoth Tom Orkney. “But, I say! Anybody thought of the time? Sun’s down, but not one of us noticed it!”
The boys glanced about them as curiously as if Tom had made some remarkable discovery. They had paid no attention to watches or sunshine, and now dusk was coming on. Poke tightened his belt with a jerk.