with cautious steps he moved along
the wall toward the lower corner.

Suddenly there was a sound of a heavy fall, followed by a volley of
profanity, and the next instant something flew against the wall, and was
shivered to fragments that fell with a tinkling noise.

"He's tipped over a bottle," thought Bug, "and now he's smashed it
because he's mad. That's like Moxley."

This haphazard guess was absolutely correct. All was silent for a second
or two after the glass had fallen; then Moxley grumbled in an audible
tone: "Confound the luck! I hope that wasn't my whisky bottle. It ain't
in my pocket."

Of such dire import did the question seem to the ruffian that he
ventured to strike a match--little dreaming what the impulse would cost
him.

Bug's heart beat wildly when he heard the crack and saw the light flash
through the darkness. He jammed the pistol into his pocket and rose on
his hands and knees.

Moxley was standing before the sawdust heap with his face to the wall.
As the match flared up he dropped the gun and seized a greenish bottle
that was lying at his feet.

"Here's luck!" he muttered contentedly. "It was the oil bottle I brought
from the canoes that got in my way."

He lifted the fiery poison to his lips, still holding the burning match
between the fingers of his other hand, and remained in this attitude for
a brief moment.

Bug stood erect and moved across the floor with the caution of a
creeping tigress. Nearer and nearer he came, and when less than four
feet separated him from his intended victim, Moxley heard some slight
noise and wheeled around.

Bug was on him with one spring, and down they fell with a great crash,
and rolled in furious strife over the shaking floor--Bug crying for help
at the top of his voice, Moxley uttering hoarse threats and
imprecations.

Blinded with rage they did not observe that the burning end of the match
had fallen on the very spot where the widely scattered kerosene oil was
most plentiful. Even when the hissing blue flames spurted up and licked
the rubbish on all sides with greedy tongues, they fought on
desperately, now one uppermost, now the other, as they verged toward the
center of the floor.

When Hocker and Jeffries burst into the mill, followed by Ned and Abner,
the conflagration was beyond control. The flames were devouring the
planking of the wall with a great roaring and crackling, spreading on
each side and to the floor above.

The scene was one