"I think, fellows," proposed Dave Darrin huskily at last, "that
we owe a whopping big vote of thanks to good old Dick Prescott!"

"After we pass that vote," proposed Hazelton, "we'd better make
all haste to get out of these woods before the owner of this
stretch of forest comes along to nab the fellows who set his timber
afire."

"Do you see any trees ablaze?" Dick demanded.

Now, for the first time, two or three of the fellows began to
realize the value of Dick's idea. The sun-burned grass, some
three acres in extent, was a clearing devoid of trees. Here
the July heat had baked the turf. On all sides, under the trees
beyond, the grass was still green. Any boy who has ever been
in the country knows that green grass won't burn. Hence the blaze
was limited to a small area. A few trees whose trunks were near
the edge of the clearing were smoking slightly, but no damage
was done to the timber. There was really no work to be done in
extinguishing this fire, which, furious while it lasted, was now
dying out.

"Let's get back and see how our camp fared," proposed Hazelton.

"We don't have to," Dick replied. "We saw the directions taken
by the cattle, and they didn't go anywhere near our camp. Let's
wait, and, as soon as the ground is cool enough, let's get out
to the injured cows, and see if we can help any of them."