nse; he could feel
its hot breath now, although a bush-covered paddock ahead blocked the
fire itself from his immediate view. He had to choose between picking
his way through the trees or galloping round them; and chose the latter,
since Shannon showed no sign of fatigue. He put the last wire fence
behind him with a sigh of relief. A small farm with easy enough fences
remained to be crossed, and then he swung round the timber at top speed.
Once round it, he should come within view of the Rainhams' house.

He came into the open country, and pulled up with a shout of dismay.
Before him was the long line of timber marking the creek, but between
lay nothing but a rolling cloud of smoke, lit with flashes of flame. A
hot gust of wind blew it aside for a moment, and through it he caught
a glimpse of Creek Cottage, burning fiercely. Wally uttered a smothered
groan, and thrust Shannon forward, over the last fence, and up a little
lane that led near the Rainhams' back gate.

The paddock was nearly all on fire. It had started somewhere back in
the bush country, and had swept across like a wall, burning everything
before it. As Wally reached the gate, it was rolling away across the
paddocks, a sheet of flame, licking up the dry grass; leaving behind it
bare and blackened ground, with here and there a fence post, or a
tree burning, and, in the midst of its track, Creek Cottage wrapped in
flames.

The boy slipped from his saddle and flung Shannon's bridle over the
gate-post. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned back and released
him, buckling the reins into one stirrup.

"I don't dare to tie you up, old man," he said. "The beastly fire might
swing round. Go home, if you like. I can't take you across that hot
ground." He gave the chestnut's neck a hasty pat; then, putting one hand
on the gate, he vaulted it cleanly and ran across the burnt ground.

The grass was yet smouldering; it broke away under his feet, crackling
and falling into black powder. He ran desperately, not feeling the
burning breath of the fire, in blind hope of being able to save
something. The house itself, he knew, was doomed; no fire-brigade could
have checked the flames which had laid hold of the flimsy weatherboard.
The fire had divided round it, checked a little by Tommy's
flower-garden, which was almost uninjured yet, and by Bob's rows of
green vegetables which lay singed and ruined; then, unable to wait,
it had swept on its way through the long dry gr