He was lying, half in, half out of the bunk. The camp was full of smoke, dense, acrid, stifling. His eyes smarted and his throat was parched and burning. At his side lay Poke, breathing stertorously. Sam made him out by a flickering light, which came from the direction of the cook’s quarters. Beyond him was Step, raised on an elbow and coughing chokingly.
“Fire! Fire!” A startled voice raised the alarm, and others repeated the cry. Men began to stagger by him, stumbling as they went and groping wildly. Then three or four, led by Mr. Kane, charged the other way. The boss was shouting orders. There was the crash of an axe vigorously plied. The glass fell from a shattered window, and a draft of cool air fanned his face.
Sam, fully awake at last, sprang from the bunk. Step, too, had gained the floor. Between them they dragged Poke from his blankets, and put him on his feet.
“Take him out, Step!” Sam directed, and set himself to the task of rousing the Trojan, who appeared to be in the half unconscious condition in which Poke was. The Shark, having very calmly adjusted his spectacles on his nose, was tugging at Herman Boyd’s shoulder. Sam lent a hand, and with his aid Herman was started for the door.
Tom Orkney overtook them. He was breathing with difficulty, but managed to gasp out that the ell was all ablaze. Then came the foreman and a lumberjack, carrying a helpless form.
“Cook—right where smudge was thickest—overcome,” Tom explained hoarsely.
Through the doorway they pressed into the cold, still air of the starless night. Mr. Kane touched Sam’s arm.
“All your crowd out? Good! Keep ’em out till we get the fire under. ’Twon’t be long, what with unseasoned logs and the snow on the roof.”
Then he was dashing back into the camp, and shouting orders to his men. Tom Orkney bent over the cook, who was lying in the snow.
