The fire had divided round it, checked a little by Tommy's
flower-garden, which was almost uninjured yet, and by Bob's rows of
green vegetables which lay singed and ruined; then, unable to wait,
it had swept on its way through the long dry grass, which carried it
swiftly forward, leaving the burning cottage and the green garden in the
midst of a blackened waste.
The front verandah, and one side, were yet untouched, nor had the front
rooms caught. Wally raced through the garden and tried the front door.
It was locked. He sprang to the nearest window and smashed it with quick
blows from a hoe standing near; then, flinging up the sash, dived in.
The room was full of smoke, the heat stifling. It was Tommy's room. He
gathered up her little personal belongings from the dressing-table and
flung them on the quilt, following them with armfuls of clothes hastily
swept from shelves. A trunk, covered with a bright Navajo blanket, stood
near the window. He thrust it through to the verandah, and scrambled
out after it with the quilt and blankets bundled round the things he had
saved. Dragging them across the lawn, he thrust them under some green
bushes, and returned for the trunk.
"I don't believe you'll catch there," he said, choking. "Wonder if I can
try another room?"
He had opened the door from Tommy's room into the hall, but the rush of
flame and smoke were so appalling that he had to shut it again quickly,
realizing that the draught only helped the fire.
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