sleeping under the hay with a pipe going?" added Bert.
"Come on, hit it up, or we'll be the last ones there."

This was evident, for a number of groups of school lads had passed our
friends, who were jogging along rather leisurely.

"There goes Sam Heller and Nick," remarked Bert.

"All right. Let 'em get ahead," advised Tom. "We don't want their
company."

As they reached the top of the hill the blaze burst full on their sight.

"Two stacks on fire!" yelled Jack.

"Big ones, too!" added Bert.

"And they're near the barn," said Tom. "That'll go next, if the wind
shifts."

"They've formed a bucket brigade," said George. "Come on, fellows,
let's hurry and get busy!"

He broke into a sharp run, the others following, and soon they were at
the scene, together with a number of their friends from all classes.
Farmer Appleby was running about "like a hen with her head cut off," as
Tom expressed it, calling out various orders.

"Git more water there!" he shouted. "Fill them buckets faster! Hurry
up, boys, or th' hull place'll go! Lively now! Oh when I git holt of
th' rask'il thet set fire t' my hay I'll have th' law on him!"

"He thinks someone set the fire," remarked Bert to Tom.

"Very likely," was the calm reply. "Most farmers do when it's their
own carelessness that's to blame. But he'll never get the fire out
that way."

This was only too evident. Half a score of men and boys, some of them
the hired help of Mr. Appleby, were filling pails from a cistern, and
at a pump, and dashing the water on the blazing hay. They could not
get near enough to make the water effective, and what little they did
dash on was almost at once turned to steam by the heat. Then, too, the
stack was so large in diameter at the bottom that only one side could
be attacked at a time.

"Have you any more pails?" yelled Jack into the farmer's ear.

"I don't know. Don't bother me! Look in the barn! Oh what a
calamity!" was the answer. "If I get holt of th' rask'l------" and
then the farmer rushed off to grab a bucket from a staggering lad, who
was advancing with it. Mr. Appleby slipped in the mud, and went down,
spilling the precious fluid.

"Jupiter's crab apples!" he cried. "What d' ye mean by that, Hank
Norton? Butterfingers!"

"You spilled it! I didn't!" snapped the lad.

"All right, git more! Oh, what a fire! My barns'll go, sure!" and the
distracted man rushed about not knowing what to do.

"He's half