With that Kurt dove into the wheat, and, sweeping wide his arms to make a passage, he strode on, his eyes bent piercingly upon the ground close about him.  He did not penetrate deeper into the wheat from the road than the distance he estimated a strong arm could send a stone.  Almost at once his keen sight was rewarded.  He found a cake of phosphorus half buried in the soil.  It was dry, hard and hot either from the sun or its own generating power.  That inspired Kurt.  He hurried on.  Long practice enabled him to slip through the wheat as a barefoot country boy could run through the corn-fields.  And his passion gave him the eyes of a hunting hawk sweeping down over the grass.  To and fro he passed within the limits he had marked, oblivious to time and heat and effort.  And covering that part of the wheat-field bordering the road he collected twenty-seven cakes of phosphorus, the last few of which were so hot they burnt his hands.

Then he had to rest.  He appeared as wet as if he had been plunged into water; his skin burned, his eyes pained, his breast heaved.  Panting and spent, he lay along the edge of the wheat, with closed eyelids and lax muscles.

When he recovered he rose and went back along the road.  The last quarter of the immense wheat-field lay upon a slope of a hill, and Kurt had to mount this before he could see the valley.  From the summit he saw a sight that caused him to utter a loud exclamation.  Many columns of smoke were lifting from the valley, and before him the sky was darkened.  Olsen’s hill was as if under a cloud.  No flames showed anywhere, but in places the line of smoke appeared to be approaching.

“It’s a thousand to one against us,” he said, bitterly, and looked at his watch.  He was amazed to see that three hours had passed since he had given orders to the men.  He hurried back to the house.  No one was there except the old servant, who was wringing her hands and crying that the house would burn.  Throwing the cakes of phosphorus into a watering-trough, Kurt ran into the kitchen, snatched a few biscuits, and then made for the fields, eating as he went.

He hurried down a lane that bordered the big wheat-field.  On this side was fallow ground for half the length of the section, and the other half was ripe barley, dry as tinder, and beyond that, in line with the burning fields, a quarter-section of blasted wheat.  The men were there.  Kurt saw at once that other men with horses and machines were also there.  Then he recognized Olsen and two other of his neighbors.  As he ran up he was equally astounded and out of breath, so that he could not speak.  Old Dorn sat with gray head bowed on his hand.

“Hello!” shouted Olsen.  His grimy face broke into a hard smile.  “Fires all over!  Wheat’s burnin’ like prairie grass!  Them chips of phosphorus are sure from hell!...  We’ve come over to help.”

“You—­did!  You left—­your fields!” gasped Kurt.

“Sure.  They’re not much to leave.  And we’re goin’ to save this section of yours or bust tryin’!...  I sent my son in his car, all over, to hurry men here with horses, machines, wagons.”