, the
sashes were blown from place outright, and Bart dodged to escape a
shower of glass.

He was fairly appalled at the suddenness with which the flames enveloped
the interior, for they shot up in every direction, and the partition
dividing the shed appeared blown from place.

Rockets were fizzing, giant crackers exploding by the pack, and colored
chemicals sending out a varied glow.

Bart dashed for the front--a muffled cry caused him to hurry his speed.
His father had uttered the cry.

Dazed by the light, his eyes filled with smarting particles of burned
powder, Bart suddenly came in violent contact with a human form just as
he turned the corner of the shed.

Both nearly upset in the collision. At first Bart fancied it might be
one of the burglars, but peering closer he recognized the friendly
roustabout.

"Told you so!" gasped the latter in a desperate fluster. "Fire--I'll
help you."

"Yes, quick! run," breathed Bart, rushing ahead, "My father's in that
burning building!"

Bart was thrilled. The main room of the express shed was one bright blur
of brilliancy and colored smoke.

It rolled and whirled, obliterating all outlines within the room.

"Father! father!" shouted Bart, dashing recklessly in at the open
doorway.

He could not make out a single object in that chaos, but he knew the
location of every familiar article in the place, and made for the chair
in which his father usually sat.

"Father!" he screamed, as his hands touched the arms of the chair and
found it empty.

The sulphurous flames nearly choked him, the heat from the crackling
wooden partition singed his hair, but he could only grope about blindly.

"Here he is," sounded a suffocating voice.

"Where, oh! where?" panted Bart.

He threw out his arms wildly, groping to locate the speaker, whom he
knew to be the roustabout. "Where is he--where is he?"

He had come in contact with the roustabout now, who with all his
timidity was proving himself a hero in the present instance.

"Lying on the floor--stumbled over him--I'm on fire, too!"

Bart's feet touched a prostrate form. It was moved along as Bart stooped
and got hold of the shoulders.

The roustabout was helping him. They dragged together, stumbling to the
doorway on the very verge of fatal danger, and reeled across the
platform.

The roustabout jumped to the ground. Once there he gently but in a
masterly way drew the inanimate form of Mr. Stirling from the platform,
and