who was still dressing. Then, as a burst of flame seemed to
rush up skyward, and a cloud of brilliant sparks floated away, he added,
"Dick, my lad, it is poor Hickathrift's turn now."

He was quite right, for as they ran the few hundred yards which
separated them from the burning place, it was to find that the poor
fellow's house, work-shed, stock of wood, peat-stack, and out-buildings
were in a blaze; even his punt, which had been brought up for its annual
repair and pitching, blazing furiously.

Hickathrift, Jacob, Mrs Hickathrift, and the farm people were all at
work with buckets, which they handed along from the dipping place by the
old willows; but at the first glance the squire saw that it was in vain,
and that the fire had taken such hold that nothing could be saved. Both
he and Dick, however, joined in the efforts, saying nothing but working
with all their might, the squire taking Jacob's place and dipping the
water, while the apprentice and Dick helped to pass the full buckets
along and the empty back, for they were not enough to form a double
line.

For about a quarter of an hour this was kept up, the wheelwright
throwing the water where he thought it would do most good; but the
flames only roared the louder, and, fanned by a pleasant breeze,
fluttered and sent up sparks of orange and gold, till a cask of pitch
got well alight, and then the smoke arose in one dense cloud.

It was a glorious sight in spite of its horror, for the wood in the shed
and the pile without burned brilliantly, lighting up the mere, gilding
the reeds, and spreading a glow around that was at times dazzling.

"Pass it along quick! pass it along!" Jacob kept saying, probably to
incite people to work harder; but it was not necessary, for everyone was
doing his or her best, when, just as they were toiling their hardest,
the wheelwright took a bucket of water, hurled it as far as he could,
and then dashed on the empty vessel and turned away.

"No good," he said bitterly, as he wiped his face. "Fire joost spits at
me when I throw in the watter. It must bon down, squire, eh?"

"Yes, my man, nothing could save the place now."

"And all my same [lard] in a jar--ten pounds good," murmured Mrs
Hickathrift.

"Ay, moother, and my Sunday clothes," said the wheelwright with a bitter
laugh.

"And my best frock."

"Ay, and my tools, and a bit o' mooney I'd saved, and all my stoof. Eh,
but I'm about ruined, moother, and just when I was