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St. Elmo’s face brightened with intelligence. He broke into the story to give a graphic account of how a little yellow chicken of his sister’s had got “dwownded” in the pig-trough. “That’s what I’m hurrying for. Mamma sent me on an errand to Mrs. Black’s and I want to be back at the station in time to see the train come in. I wish we were going to have a refugee. Wasn’t the earthquake awful?” The heat and smoke increased alarmingly as they went on, the man puffing at the boy’s pace. In and out, occasionally doubling and returning but never losing altitude, Billy crashed on. His slender body slipped through underbrush by way of small apertures that would not admit the man’s greater bulk; he had to break his way. The boy, also accustomed to running, climbing, had the advantage of better breath; though the other could not, Billy still held his mouth shut against the suffocating smoke, kept his smarting eyes partly closed..

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Billy looked up at the Italian, saw him take a pistol from his pocket, discharge it in the air, replace it, and go calmly on with his work. What could that be for? A warning? Yes; for he realized suddenly that every sound in the house had ceased. The wagon passed from sight. He could hear the voices of the men as they drove by, see the driver pointing to the house with his whip; and one of the women on the rear seat looked back as long as the house could be seen. Then the soft mysterious sounds began again. Moses, his feelings by this time wrought to a state of down-right rebellion, grasped a pail in either hand and sought the peaceful atmosphere of the river. “Oh, don’t wait for me,” Billy exclaimed, opening his eyes suddenly; “you won’t catch ’em! The fire’ll get there first! Hurry! Leave me alone, I tell you!” “Never mind the floors, Billy. You’ve worked hard already; run off and have a good time.”.