"Good Lord!" he yelled. "The whole place 'll go, it's—"
Varge leaped toward the other through a roll of black smoke that surged suddenly—coincident with the roar of an explosion, a can of superheated kerosene probably—across the space between them.
"Is there any fire apparatus in town?" he asked crisply.
"Yes," said Kingman. "There's a hand-tub in the—"
"Then get it—quick!"
It was not convict and guard—it was man to man—the one dominant, contained, self-possessed; the other flurried and excited—and without hesitation or question Kingman obeyed. He reared his horse to its hind legs, spun around like a top, and, low in the saddle, tore down the driveway toward the road.
Another glance Varge gave around him—the fire was showing through the kitchen roof and spreading across the shingles of the house itself in an ever widening path—then he ran back along the driveway.
A group of guards, the warden at their head, were just turning in from the road. He saw Janet Rand speed across the lawn to meet her father, and then all came on toward him, running at top speed. At the corner of the house Varge halted and waited for them to join him.
"I think, sir," he said quietly, as the warden came up, "that it would be a wise thing to get the furniture out of the house onto the lawn."
"Nonsense," panted the warden; "it can't be as bad as that; it hasn't had a long enough start to—"
"There is smoke in the front rooms now," Janet in-
