He was fairly appalled at the suddenness with which the flames enveloped the interior, for they shot up in every direction, and the partition dividing the shed appeared blown from place.

Rockets were fizzing, giant crackers exploding by the pack, and colored chemicals sending out a varied glow.

Bart dashed for the front—­a muffled cry caused him to hurry his speed.  His father had uttered the cry.

Dazed by the light, his eyes filled with smarting particles of burned powder, Bart suddenly came in violent contact with a human form just as he turned the corner of the shed.

Both nearly upset in the collision.  At first Bart fancied it might be one of the burglars, but peering closer he recognized the friendly roustabout.

“Told you so!” gasped the latter in a desperate fluster.  “Fire—­I’ll help you.”

“Yes, quick! run,” breathed Bart, rushing ahead, “My father’s in that burning building!”

Bart was thrilled.  The main room of the express shed was one bright blur of brilliancy and colored smoke.

It rolled and whirled, obliterating all outlines within the room.

“Father! father!” shouted Bart, dashing recklessly in at the open doorway.

He could not make out a single object in that chaos, but he knew the location of every familiar article in the place, and made for the chair in which his father usually sat.

“Father!” he screamed, as his hands touched the arms of the chair and found it empty.

The sulphurous flames nearly choked him, the heat from the crackling wooden partition singed his hair, but he could only grope about blindly.

“Here he is,” sounded a suffocating voice.

“Where, oh! where?” panted Bart.

He threw out his arms wildly, groping to locate the speaker, whom he knew to be the roustabout.  “Where is he—­where is he?”

He had come in contact with the roustabout now, who with all his timidity was proving himself a hero in the present instance.

“Lying on the floor—­stumbled over him—­I’m on fire, too!”

Bart’s feet touched a prostrate form.  It was moved along as Bart stooped and got hold of the shoulders.

The roustabout was helping him.  They dragged together, stumbling to the doorway on the very verge of fatal danger, and reeled across the platform.

The roustabout jumped to the ground.  Once there he gently but in a masterly way drew the inanimate form of Mr. Stirling from the platform, and carried him over to a pile of ties outside of the glow and scorch of the burning express shed.

Bart anxiously scanned his father’s face.  It was black and blistered but he was breathing naturally.

“Overcome with the smoke—­or tumbled and was stunned,” declared the roustabout.

Excited approaching shouts caused the speaker to glare down the tracks.  Half a dozen people were hurrying to the scene of the fire.  The roustabout with a nervous gasp vanished in the darkness.