But he had sense enough to do as he was told now, snatching up one of
the sand buckets and following the boy. Frank immediately commenced
fighting the flames with a vim. He slapped the wet sand at the creeping
fire, and wherever it struck there seemed to come a quick abatement of
the conflagration. But it was by this time so extended that as fast as
he succeeded in knocking it out in one place it cropped up afresh
somewhere else.
His ammunition would not last if this kept up.
"Get busy, Shea!" he cried. "Find something and slap at the fire for all
you're worth! Fight it, man, fight it!"
As Frank happened to turn his head to learn what the other was doing he
saw something that made very little impression on his mind just then,
but which had considerable bearing on the matter later.
A light was speeding along the road, heading away from town, and Frank
realized that the firebug had seized upon his convenient wheel and was
making his escape.
Later on he might figure out the meaning of this movement. Just then he
really had no time to give it a thought, no matter if a dozen wheels
were concerned. The fire demanded every atom of his attention.
Shea did get busy. Once he became stirred up, and he proved a valuable
helper. He went for the flames tooth and nail, smothered them with his
coat, regardless of consequences, after he had slipped that article of
wearing apparel off; kicked and tore and fought until it became evident
that between them they were certainly making a decided impression on the
threatening conflagration.
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