A LIVELY TIME.
It took the members of the Zero Club less than two minutes to reach the
burning barn.
As they neared it they saw a man rush out of the kitchen of the
farmhouse.
He was bareheaded and screaming at the top of his voice:
“Help! fire! help!”
“We’ll help you!” cried Jack. “Are your pails handy? Where’s the well?”
“The well is here by the back door! Samanthy, get the milk pails an’
all the buckets you can find! The barn’s afire!”
From out of the kitchen came a woman’s scream. Ten seconds later an
elderly female appeared, carrying half-a-dozen milk pails, a small
wooden tub and a slop bucket.
In the meantime, Boxy was turning the well handle just as fast as he
could and filling the big half-cask that stood beneath the spout. By
the time it was half full the others had the pails and were dipping
them in.
Harry and Jack and the farmer were the first to dash down to the barn.
The fire was in a mass of hay near the feed box, and on this they
dashed the water they carried.
“I’d like to know who sot this afire?” growled the farmer, wrathfully.
“We saw a man leave the barn and jump the rear fence,” replied Jack.
“Wot kind of a looking man?”
“A tall fellow, with a soft, light hat and a blue overcoat.”
“Jim Lemkins, sure as fate!” howled the farmer. “He’ll have to be
locked up again; commencin’ his old tricks.”
“Who is Jim Lemkins?” asked Harry, as they went for more water.
“A half-crazy chap from the village. He has caused no end of fires
around here. But he won’t cause any more--not if I have the say of it!”
Nothing more was said just then, all hands paying attention to the
fire. The big barn doors were closed to keep out the draught, and
in five minutes what had promised to be a serious conflagration was
completely put out.
“Phew! but that was warm work!” exclaimed the farmer, after the last of
the sparks were stamped out.
“You can be thankful that it is no worse,” remarked Harry.
“So I be. You fellers worked like you understood what you was about.”
“We’ve had one experience at putting out a fire,” returned Jack, dryly.
“We are out camping, and our hut caught and nearly burned us up.”
“Gee shoo! Well, the damage here ain’t much, thanks to your comin’
along an’ giving a hand. Won’t you come into the house?”
“Thank you, we were going to stop just as the fire broke out,” replied
Harry.
“Is that so?” returned the farmer, questioningly.
“Yes,” added Boxy. “We wanted to see if we couldn’t buy some fresh
bread, crackers and pie from you. We’ve run out of everything but meat
and coffee at our camp.”
“Well, maybe Samanthy can fix you up. Come on in.”
Seeing to it that none of the live sparks had escaped their notice, the
party left the barn and entered the kitchen of the farmhouse, where all
was cozy and warm. The farmer’s wife had preceded them, and now thanked
them as her husband had done for their help.
“They want to buy some fresh bread, cake and pie, Samanthy. They are
out campin’, and run out of that kind of stuff.”
“They can’t buy none, Job, but they can have all I can spare, an’
welcome,” replied the wife, warmly.
The matter was talked over for a few minutes, and then the good lady
visited her pantry and brought forth two loaves of bread, a currant
jelly layer cake and a large apple pie.
“Here you be, an’ welcome,” she said.
“Now, if you want any vegetables, say the word, and they be yours,”
said the farmer. “The cellar an’ the barn are more’n full.”
Once again the matter was talked over, and when the boys were ready
to leave, they had, in addition to the bread, cake and pastry, a large
basket completely filled with potatoes, turnips, onions, beans and
cabbage, enough to last them until the end of their outing.
When they were thanking the country folks for their kindness, a cutter
drove up to the horse-block, and a young and buxom countrywoman rushed
into the house. She proceeded to hug and kiss the old couple.
“Such news, ma!” she burst out. “Uncle Ben and three sleigh loads are
coming over to-night for a dance! They are going to bring old Fiddler
Dick and an Italian harp player along. Henry and I want you to come
over sure!”
“Humph! I’m most too old for a shin-dig like that,” said the farmer,
but, nevertheless, he smiled broadly.
“So be I,” added the wife, but she, too, looked pleased.
“Oh, you must come, both of you!” insisted the young country wife,
impulsively. “And you----” and then she broke off short and gazed at
the four boys who had stepped to one side out of the way.
“My daughter,” said the old farmer, presenting her to the boys. “Sarah,
these young fellows just helped me put a fire out in the barn--one that
crazy Jim Lemkins had started. I don’t know their names, but they are
from Rudskill and are out camping.”
With all the polish at his command, Harry stepped forward and
introduced his chums and then himself. The young woman shook hands and
then asked numerous questions about the affair.
Quite a friendly conversation ensued, and then it transpired that the
farmer, whose name was Brodhead, knew Jack and Andy’s father. He asked
the boys how their parent was, and while he was doing this the daughter
of the house began a whispered conversation with her mother.
“So many girls, you know, ma,” Harry heard her say. “And they look like
real nice chaps, too.”
“Well, do as you see fit, Sarah,” replied the mother. “They certainly
deserve any good time we can give ’em.”
Then the young woman blushed and stammered, but finally invited the
boys to attend the sleigh-ride party at her home, a mile up the lake
shore.
“There will be lots of girls to dance with,” she added, with a little
laugh. “And we shall have a great number of games, too.”
“You are very kind,” began Harry, and then he looked at his companions.
One glance was sufficient. Every one wanted to go; and so it was
settled that they would attend a regular country dance that night at
eight o’clock.
Ten minutes later they were on their way back to the lake shore, where
they found Pickles wondering what had become of them. A dinner of meat
was ready, but they kept it waiting long enough to add some roast
potatoes, and when they ate the meal they topped off with the pie,
which, as Boxy put it, “struck home every time.”