A fire in a small country village, always a dread catastrophe, is much
more serious in the winter, especially when any wind is stirring; and in
the realization of these facts, the street was soon alive with men and
women hurrying to the scene of the conflagration.
When they learned, however, that it was the home of the crippled
veteran, many of them turned back.
All Paul's friends, together with his father, had started towards the
scene, as soon as they knew where the fire was; and as Mr. Martin met
several men whom he knew, returning, he asked:
"Where are you going? Is the fire out, or what?"
"Oh, it's nothing but old Jed Brown's shanty," retorted one of them.
"That doesn't make any difference. You ought to be willing to help Jed
as quickly as anyone else. Besides, there's quite a wind, and if we
don't check the blaze, it may spread. Now turn around and come back with
me."
As Mr. Martin was a person of importance and influence in Rivertown, the
men whom he had stopped and ordered to go back quickly obeyed.
When they arrived at the head of the street whence they could see the
veteran's little house, they all realized that it would be impossible to
save it, for, though it had been a short fifteen minutes since the alarm
had been sounded, the house was a seething mass of flames.
Frantically men were working with shovels, throwing the snow which they
scooped up onto the leaping tongues of fire, but without any result.
Rising high into the air, the sparks were borne in all directions, and
when an unusually strong gust of wind swirled down the bluff, the
burning brands were carried from the doomed house.
"Where are the boys with the hand engine?" demanded Mr. Martin, when no
sight or sound was there of the volunteer fire department. "Aren't they
coming?"
"They're stuck. One of the runners on the front bob gave in," informed a
man who had just joined the constantly-increasing fringe of men and
women whose figures stood out in prominent silhouette against the lurid
flames.
"Then we must get busy and form bucket brigades to wet down the roofs of
those two houses right alongside!" exclaimed Mr. Martin, pointing to two
large white residences, one of which was about one hundred feet from the
burning house, and the other almost directly across the not over-wide
street.
"Come on, men! If those houses catch, the fire will sweep right through
the town! A quarter of an hour's work now will save them; but if we wait
very long it will be too late."
Aroused by the words of the town Nestor, the men and boys lost no time
in rushing to each of the residences; and while some of them went into
the kitchens and manned the pumps, others formed a line to pass the
pails, which were contributed by everybody; while others of the men who
had placed ladders against the eaves, mounted the roof, where they sat
astraddle of the ridgepole, dousing the embers which were falling on the
roofs with greater frequency.
Suddenly, the rumor spread among those still watching the fire that the
crippled veteran was in his house.
Hysterical women wrung their hands and begged the men to rush into the
flames and rescue the helpless man. Such an act, however, would have
been the height of folly, and none of them made the attempt, knowing
full well that were he inside he would have met his death long before.
[Illustration: OTHERS FORMED A LINE TO PASS THE PAILS.]
The rumor, however, was dispelled almost as quickly as it had started.
"Ha! Old Jed ain't in the house! I seen him sneaking off down the street
just as soon as the fire was going well," exclaimed Pud.
"How long was that before the alarm was given?" demanded several of the
men, who had heard the statement of the butcher's son.
"Oh, five or ten minutes, I should say. It seems funny to me that the
house should burn so quickly; and then I should have thought Jed would
have wanted to stay and watch it," added Pud.
Had the boy known, however, the purpose for which the old veteran had
gone down the street, he would have been less active in trying to sow
the seeds of suspicion among those who were in earshot of him. But in
his ignorance he continued to make statements that would cast suspicion
upon the old man.
"When I first seen the fire, I thought I smelled kerosene."
"So did I," chorused several others.
This mention of the fact that they had noted the odor of the combustible
oil immediately started the tongues of the women gossips to wagging; and
gathering into little groups, they began to talk over with one another
the reasons the crippled veteran would have for burning up his home.
The bully, however, had not finished his sensational statements. No
sooner had he seen that his sowing of the seed of suspicion had found
ready soil, than he added to his previous effect by saying:
"After I seen Jed and smelled the kerosene, I went down around behind
the house and seen a fellow running. Seeing he was headed toward the
village I cut around back and followed him while he walked up Kenosha
street--and who do you think it was?"
The highly excitable minds of the women and the village gossips had been
worked to concert pitch by the bully, and as he paused dramatically
after his story, they cried:
"Who? Tell us, quick!"
Looking round from one to another of the score of people who had
gathered about him, the bully exclaimed:
"It was Harry Watson, the boy that's come to live here!"