“Or a tramp sleeping under the hay with a pipe going?” added Bert.  “Come on, hit it up, or we’ll be the last ones there.”

This was evident, for a number of groups of school lads had passed our friends, who were jogging along rather leisurely.

“There goes Sam Heller and Nick,” remarked Bert.

“All right.  Let ’em get ahead,” advised Tom.  “We don’t want their company.”

As they reached the top of the hill the blaze burst full on their sight.

“Two stacks on fire!” yelled Jack.

“Big ones, too!” added Bert.

“And they’re near the barn,” said Tom.  “That’ll go next, if the wind shifts.”

“They’ve formed a bucket brigade,” said George.  “Come on, fellows, let’s hurry and get busy!”

He broke into a sharp run, the others following, and soon they were at the scene, together with a number of their friends from all classes.  Farmer Appleby was running about “like a hen with her head cut off,” as Tom expressed it, calling out various orders.

“Git more water there!” he shouted.  “Fill them buckets faster!  Hurry up, boys, or th’ hull place’ll go!  Lively now!  Oh when I git holt of th’ rask’il thet set fire t’ my hay I’ll have th’ law on him!”

“He thinks someone set the fire,” remarked Bert to Tom.

“Very likely,” was the calm reply.  “Most farmers do when it’s their own carelessness that’s to blame.  But he’ll never get the fire out that way.”

This was only too evident.  Half a score of men and boys, some of them the hired help of Mr. Appleby, were filling pails from a cistern, and at a pump, and dashing the water on the blazing hay.  They could not get near enough to make the water effective, and what little they did dash on was almost at once turned to steam by the heat.  Then, too, the stack was so large in diameter at the bottom that only one side could be attacked at a time.

“Have you any more pails?” yelled Jack into the farmer’s ear.

“I don’t know.   Don’t bother me!   Look in the barn!   Oh what a
calamity!” was the answer.   “If I get holt of th’ rask’l------” and
then the farmer rushed off to grab a bucket from a staggering lad, who
was advancing with it.   Mr. Appleby slipped in the mud, and went down,
spilling the precious fluid.

“Jupiter’s crab apples!” he cried.  “What d’ ye mean by that, Hank Norton?  Butterfingers!”

“You spilled it!  I didn’t!” snapped the lad.

“All right, git more!  Oh, what a fire!  My barns’ll go, sure!” and the distracted man rushed about not knowing what to do.

“He’s half crazy,” decided Tom.  “He’ll never get the fire out in the world acting that way.  And if the wind shifts the blaze will blow right toward the barns.”

This was evident.  Two large stacks of hay, for which there had been no room in the barn, stood in the farmyard not far from the big buildings that contained the farm products, horses and machinery.  Both stacks were afire in several places, but as there was only a slight wind the flames went almost straight up, inclining away from the buildings.  But it would need only a slight shift of the wind to cause much damage.