ver fences and wheel them over ploughed fields to get
there, because we did not know the right way by road.

Crown Ovender is a little farmhouse, and a barn opposite, and a great
rick-yard, and two of the ricks were alight. They smoked horribly, and
the wind blew the hot smoke into your eyes, and every now and then you
saw great flames--yards long they seemed--leap out as if they were
crying to get to the house.

We had put our bikes in a ditch a field away, and now we went all round
about to ask if we could help; but there wasn't a soul to be seen.

We did not know what to do. Even Oswald--always full of resource--almost
scratched his head, which seems to help some people to think, though I
don't think it ever would me, besides not looking nice.

'I wish we'd told them in the village,' said Dicky.

We had not done this, and the reason, the author is ashamed to say, was
because we wanted to get there before anyone else. This was very
selfish, and the author has often regretted it.

The flames were growing larger and fiercer, and the tar on the side of
the barn next the rick-yard was melting and running down like treacle.

'There's a well!' said Dicky suddenly. 'It isn't a deep well, and there
are two buckets.'

Oswald understood. He drew up the water, and Dicky took the buckets as
they came up full and dripping and dashed the water on to the tarry face
of the barn. It hissed and steamed. We think it did some good. We took
it in turns to turn the well-wheel. It was hard work, and it was
frightfully hot. Then suddenly we heard a horrid sound, a sort of
out-of-breath scream, and there was a woman, very red in the face and
perspiring, climbing over the fence.

'Hallo!' said Oswald.

'Oh!' the woman said, panting, 'it's not the house, then? Thank them as
be it's not the house! Oh, my heart alive, I thought it was the house!'

'It isn't the house,' said Oswald; 'but it jolly soon will be!'

'Oh, my pore Lily!' said the woman. 'With this 'ere wind the house 'll
be alight in a minute. And her a-bed in there! Where's Honeysett?'

'There's no one here but us. The house is locked up,' we said.

'Yes, I know, 'cause of tramps. Honeysett's got the key. I comes in as
soon as I've cleared dinner away. She's ill a-bed, sleeping like a lamb,
I'll be bound, all unknowing of her burning end.'

'We _must_ get her out,' said Oswald.

But the woman didn't seem to know what to do. She kept on saying,
'Where's Honeysett? Oh,