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 carried him over to a pile of ties outside of the glow and scorch of