"And there's a drunken old rascal calling:
'Jug-er-rum! Jug-er-rum!'!"
A nighthawk, wheeling overhead through the rain, sent down her
discordant cry. Deep in a thicket a whip-poor-will complained.
It was indeed a ghostly chorus that attended their slow progress
through the swamp at Pine Camp.
When they crossed the sawdust tract there was little sign of the
fire. The dead tree had fallen and was just a glowing pile of
coals, fast being quenched by the gently falling rain. For the
time, at least, the danger of a great conflagration was past.
"Oh! I am so glad," announced Nan, impetuously. "I was afraid
it was going to be like that Pale Lick fire."
"What Pale Lick fire?" demanded Tom, quickly. "What do you know
about that?"
"Not much, I guess," admitted his cousin, slowly. "But you used
to live there, didn't you?"
"Rafe and I don't remember anything about it," said Tom, in his
quiet way. "Rafe was a baby and I wasn't much better. Marm
saved us both, so we've been told. She and dad never speak
about it."
"Oh! And Indian Pete?" whispered Nan.
"He saved the whole of us - dad and all. He knew a way out
through a slough and across a lake. He had a dug-out. He got
badly burned dragging dad to the boat when he was almost
suffocated with smoke," Tom said soberly.
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