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On and on rushed the boat, and as the rower turned his face toward the women they were startled to see, not the one they had imagined, but Eben Tobin. There was no time, however, for questions now. As the boat neared the rocks, the boy rose to his feet and reached out a fending oar. There was a bump, a grating sound, and a roar from Eben. "On board, quick," he ordered. "The fire's on top of us!"
And while yet the rear guard was swarming upon the engine, hanging by toe-and hand-holds where it could, the train was backed rapidly out of range. Caleb Gordon kept his pine splint alight until the echoes of the engine's exhaust came faintly from the overhanging cliffs of the mountain. "They've gone back to town, and I reckon the fire's plum' out for to-day, Major," he drawled.
They all smiled at the thought of him, whom none of them respected and all of them loved. In a space of time quite short for him, Sleepy returned with an arm-load of books the text-books that had given him so much trouble, and would have given him more had they had the chance offered them. "Fire's getting low," was all he said, and he dumped the school-books, every one, into the blaze.
So they had dropped in to see old George, the rouseabout, and have a yarn with him, or, if there were no signs of the weather clearing, to consider the question of work in the wool-shed. "Hullo, boys!" mumbled George. "I reckon as thar' ain't no use us gittin' art jist now. I thinks the fire's the best place ter day. Squat yerself in that thar cheer, Mac, me boy.
"The fire's been going since yesterday afternoon. The normal output of that well is round about three thousand barrels a day. Every twenty-four hours she burns, that much oil is lost to us. So we count the fifteen hundred cheap."
"Go ahead!" said Enoch, "all the gold in the Colorado couldn't tempt me like something to eat. If you aren't ready by the time the fire's going, Mack, I shall start supper." "Go to it! I can stand it if you can!" returned Mack, who had already unpacked his pan. From that moment Enoch became the commissary and steward for the expedition.
"Your fire's dead out, Martha," he added, poking among the ashes in search of a live ember. "Yes, Phil, it's out. I can't afford fire of an evening; besides it ain't cold just now." "You can afford matches, I suppose," growled Phil; "ah, here they are. Useful things matches, not only for lightin' a feller's pipe with, but also for well; so she must have it by to-morrow afternoon, must she?"
With a little laugh she pulled her own chair, a low, deep rocker, from the bay window, out into the fire's warmth, opposite Jude's spacious chair. Between them she placed a hassock it was nearer her rocker than Jude's chair.
Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright's wench; and a good wench she is too, as e'er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire's all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all's right. And after mill's loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely."
The music has introduced Loge by a note-painting as of fire climbing up swiftly through airiest fuel. There is a quick flash or two, like darting tongues of flame. A combination of swirling and bickering and pulsating composes the commonest Loge-motif, but the variety is endless of the fire's caprices.
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