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It was late in September when the little colony on the lake struck camp and pulled into town.  The hunting season was well on, and sportsmen were out after deer and partridge, and Benny and his friends had been fortunate enough to shoot two birds and a jack rabbit.  This, of course, meant that every Saturday they took to the woods, with the one little shotgun the crowd possessed, for in the wild, new railway districts it is a good thing for boys to learn to be good shots while yet young.  Often in the snowbound winters meat is scarce, and one’s food is frequently the result of being a dead shot, so guns in the hands of boys of ten and twelve are nothing unusual.  One wonderful autumn day six of “the gang” had prowled the forest for hours, and had succeeded in bugging some plump partridges, and late in the afternoon they all sprawled out in the Indian summer sunshine, finishing the remnants of their luncheon, and looking about the marvellous cavern that, formed by the pine-crowned hills, lay like a cup at their feet.  In and out wound the railroad track, a lonely, isolated bit of man’s handiwork threading through the vastness of nature.  It was the only sign of human life visible, until, after a long, lazy hour, Benny sat up staring with round eyes into the valley below.  A thin scarf of blue smoke was indolently curling up from a spot apparently in the forest.  He called the attention of the boys to it, and for want of something else to do they lay and watched it.  Presently a puff arose more rapidly.  Then another.

“That’s a real fire, sure enough,” said Benny.  “Bet you it will burn among the timber for a month this dry season.”

“Doesn’t look among the timber,” said another boy.  “Looks as if it was along the track.”

“Let’s go down there and see,” said someone else, and forthwith “the gang” scrambled to their feet, grabbed their gun and ammunition bag and birds, and proceeded to slip and slide and scramble down the steeps, until a half-hour brought them to the railroad, along which they ran towards the direction from where they had seen the smoke.  They ran through a big cut, rounded an abrupt curve, and dashed right into a cloud of smoke, while the crackle of flame spit and sparkled, bringing them up short with speechless horror.  The huge, wooden railroad trestle spanning Whitefish Creek was in flames.  For an instant the entire gang gazed at it dumbly.  Then a boy yelled: 

“Great Scott, fellows, isn’t it good there’s no train due?  She’d plunge round this curve right into it.”

Then Benny Ellis went white.  “Who’s got a watch?” he asked very quietly.

“My Ingersoll says five-fifteen, and she’s right, too,” replied Joe McKenzie.

Benny gulped; he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, but the words finally came.  “My dad went down to Grey’s Point to bring up a special to-night, the Divisional Superintendent’s private car and some fast freight.  They’re—­they’re—­they’re due about now.”