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“What do I do when somepin’ catches fire?” the boss replied to one of Muggles’s inquiries–they were sitting in the office alone, Bender and little Billy having gone fishing with Jackson. “I’d blow that big whistle ye see hooked to the safety, first. Ye never heard it?–well, don’t! It’ll scare the life out o’ ye. If the mill catches before we can get the pumps to work it’s all up with us. If the piles of lumber git afire we kin save some of ’em if the wind’s right; that’s why we stack up the sawed stuff in separate piles.”

“What do you do first–squirt water on it?”

“No, we ain’t got no squirts that’ll reach. Best way to handle the piles o’ lumber is to start a line of bucket-men from the lake and cover the piles with anything you can catch up–blankets, old carpets, quilts; keep ’em soaked and ye kin fight it for a while; that’s when one pile’s afire, and ye’re tryin’ to save the pile next t’it. Light stuff is all over in half an hour–no matter how big the pile is–keep the rags soaked–that’s my way.”

That night before the blazing coals Muggles broke out on some theories of putting out a conflagration that made Bender sit up straight and little Billy Salters cup his ears in attention. Monteith also craned his neck to listen.

“Who the devil taught you that, Mixey?” asked Bender. “You talk as if you were Chief of the Big Six.”

“Why, any fireman knows that. I’ve been running with a machine for years.” The calm way with which Muggles said this, shaking the ashes from his cigar as he spoke, showed a certain self-reliance. “Out in our village I’m foreman of the Hose Company.”

The sudden roar that followed this announcement shook the big glasses and bottles on the low table.

“So you’d keep the blankets soaked, would you?” remarked Billy, winking at the others.

“I certainly would.” This came with a certain triumphant tone in his voice.

“Learned that practising on his head,” whispered Podvine.

“Right you are, Poddy; but Muggles, suppose the mill caught first,” chipped in Monteith. The mill was the apple of his eye. Fire was what he dreaded–he never could insure the mill fully against fire. “What would you protect first–the mill or the piles of lumber?”

“The lumber, of course–the mill can use its pumps if the engine-room escapes.”

“Better save the mill,” rejoined Monteith thoughtfully. “Trade is pretty dull.” Then he rose from his seat, reached for his hat and strolled out on the portico to take a look around before he turned in.

Muggles’s masterful grasp of a science of which his companions knew as little as they did of the Patagonian dialects came as a distinct surprise. What else had the beggar been picking up in the way of knowledge? Maybe Muggles wasn’t such a goat, after all. That Monteith had approved of his tactics only increased their respect for their companion. Muggles caught the meaning of the look in their faces and his waistcoat began to pinch him across his chest. This life was what he needed, he said to himself. Here were big men–the lumber-boss was one–and he was another–doing big things. Nothing like getting down to primeval Nature for an inspiration! “Hugging the sod,” as he named it, had had its effect not only on himself, but on his fellows. They would never have felt that way toward him at the Magnolia. The week at Wabacog had widened their horizon–widened everybody’s horizon–as for himself he felt like a Western prairie with limitless possibilities ending in mountains of accomplishment.

That night, an hour after midnight, Muggles found himself sitting bolt upright in bed. Outside, filling the air of the wilderness, bellowed and roared the deep tones of the steam siren. Then came a babel of voices gaining in distinctness and volume:

“Fire, FIRE, FIRE!”

Muggles sprang through the door and ran full tilt into Jackson and Bender, who had vaulted from their beds but a second before. The next instant every man in the bungalow, Monteith at their head, came tumbling out, one after the other.