A
hot gust of wind blew it aside for a moment, and through it he caught
a glimpse of Creek Cottage, burning fiercely. Wally uttered a smothered
groan, and thrust Shannon forward, over the last fence, and up a little
lane that led near the Rainhams' back gate.
The paddock was nearly all on fire. It had started somewhere back in
the bush country, and had swept across like a wall, burning everything
before it. As Wally reached the gate, it was rolling away across the
paddocks, a sheet of flame, licking up the dry grass; leaving behind it
bare and blackened ground, with here and there a fence post, or a
tree burning, and, in the midst of its track, Creek Cottage wrapped in
flames.
The boy slipped from his saddle and flung Shannon's bridle over the
gate-post. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned back and released
him, buckling the reins into one stirrup.
"I don't dare to tie you up, old man," he said. "The beastly fire might
swing round. Go home, if you like. I can't take you across that hot
ground." He gave the chestnut's neck a hasty pat; then, putting one hand
on the gate, he vaulted it cleanly and ran across the burnt ground.
The grass was yet smouldering; it broke away under his feet, crackling
and falling into black powder. He ran desperately, not feeling the
burning breath of the fire, in blind hope of being able to save
something. The house itself, he knew, was doomed; no fire-brigade could
have checked the flames which had laid hold of the flimsy weatherboard.
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