e of the
field pathway now, the straggling hedge on both sides was crackling
gaily. And realizing the unconquerable nature of the disaster, Billy
dropped the broken furnace-rake, uttered the short, sharp squeal of the
ferret-pressed rabbit, and took to his heels, leaving a very creditable
imitation of a prairie conflagration behind him.

It was quite dark by the time the engineer and his subordinate returned
from the "Red Cow," and their wavering progress along the field pathway
was rendered more difficult, after the first hundred yards or so, by the
unaccountable absence of the hedge. It was a singularly oppressive
night, a brooding pall of hot blackness hung above their heads, clouds
of particularly acrid and smothering dust arose at every shuffle of
their heavy boots, even the earth they trod seemed glowing with heat,
and they remarked on the phenomenon to one another.

"It's thunder weather, that's wot it be," said the engineer, mopping his
face. "I'm like my old mother, I feel it coming long before it's 'ere.
Phew!"

"Uncommon strong smell o' roast apples there is about 'ere," commented
the stoker, sniffing.

"That beer we 'ad must 'ave bin uncommon strong," said the engineer in a
low, uneasy voice. "I seem to see three fires ahead of us, that's what I
do."

"One whopping big one to the left, one little one farther on, right
plumb ahead, and another small one lower down on my right 'and. I see
'em as well as you," confirmed the stoker in troubled accents. "And
that's how that young nipper thinks to get off a licking from one of
us----"

"By obeying both," said the engineer, quickening his pace indignantly.
"This is Board School, this is. Well, you'll learn 'im to be clever, you
will."

"You won't leave a whole bone in his dirty little carcase once you're
started," said the stoker confidently.

By this time they were well upon the scene of the disaster. Before their
dazed and horrified eyes rose the incandescent shell of what had been,
for eight months past, their movable home, and a crawling crisping
rustle came from the pile of ashes that represented the joint property
of two men and one boy.

"Pinch me, Alfred," said the stoker, after an interval of appalled
silence.

"Don't ask me," said the engineer, in a weak voice, "I 'aven't the power
to kill a flea."

"There ain't one left living to kill," retorted the stoker, as he
contemplated the smoking wreck. "There was 'undreds in that van, too,"
he a