"
The boy fell back, sick at heart as he thought of those two on the
lonely hill surrounded by flame and with a leap from the precipice as
their only alternative. It was simply a choice between two forms of
awful death.
The fire had now swept to within a few yards of the outer edge of the
camp, but an open way had been cleared and saturated to check its
advance and the roofs of the shacks were kept soaked by a score or more
of alert workers as a precaution against the blowing sparks.
Tom Slade had not answered any of Jeb's calls for him. At the time of
his chief's last summons he was a couple of hundred feet from the
buildings, tearing and tugging at one of the overflow tents. Like a
madman and with a strength born of desperation he dragged the pole down
and, wrenching the stakes out of the ground by main force, never
stopping to untie the ropes, he hauled the whole dishevelled mass free
of the paraphernalia which had been beneath it, down to the lake. Duffel
bags rolled out from under it, the uprooted stakes which came along with
it caught among trees and were torn away, the long clumsy canvas trail
rebelled and clung to many an obstruction, only to be torn and ripped as
it was hauled willy-nilly to the shore of the lake.
In he strode, tugging, wrenching, dragging it after him. Part of it
floated because of the air imprisoned beneath it, but gradually sank as
it became soaked. Standing knee-deep, he held fast to one corner of it
and waited during one precious minute while it absorbed as much of the
water as it could hold.
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