"Fire!" bawled Cap'n Aaron, starting for the front hall with a scuff,
a hop, a skip, and jump, in order to favor his sprained toe. "Fire
over to Ben Ide's!"

He had his foreman's hat on wrong side to when his wife came bursting
out of the sitting-room into the hall. She, loyal though excited lady
of the castle, shifted her knight's helmet to the right-about and
stuffed his buckets, bag, and bed-wrench into his hands. The cord
of his speaking-trumpet she slung over his neck.

"I helped get father ready once, twenty years ago," she stuttered,
"and I haven't forgot! Oh, Aaron, I wish you hadn't got such a
prejudice against owning a horse and against Marengo when he tried
to sell you that one. Now you've got to wait till some one gives you
a lift. You can't go on that foot to Ide's."

"Hoss!" he snorted. "Marengo! What he tried to sell me would be a
nice thing to git to a fire with! Spavined wusser'n a carpenter's
saw-hoss, and with heaves like a gasoline dory! I can hop there on
one foot quicker'n he could trot that hoss there! But I'll git there.
I'll git there!"

He went limping out of the door, loaded with his equipment.

The Methodist bell had not begun to ring, and it was evident that
the messenger of ill tidings had not pattered into the village as
yet.

But there was a team in sight. It was "Balm o' Joy" Brackett, his
arms akimbo as he fished on the reins to hurry his horse. He was coming