"Leave the wheel, Broncho, there's not enough wind to hurt. You, Jim and Tari, get the quarter-deck buckets forrard. Follow me, Broncho--sail-locker, spare t'gallants'l." Short and sharp came the words, and Jack was gone. In an incredibly short space of time Broncho and the rover reappeared with the sail on their shoulders. Meanwhile, Tari and Jim had succeeded in hauling the senseless form of Lobu out of the forepeak, and were hard at work throwing water on to the smother of smoke. It was a slow process, however, as the water had to be drawn over the side, there being no pump on board. Rapidly the sail was dipped overboard and spread out. "Pass it down to me, boys," called Jack; and before any one could divine his intention, he had descended the ladder into the midst of the smoke. With hurried hands the sail was lowered down after him, and for a few minutes it looked as if the fire was going to be smothered. With redoubled vigour they turned to the buckets, and, in a constant stream, the water was sent sousing down. Suddenly Jack's head appeared, soaking wet and blackened with smoke, at the top of the ladder. "An axe!" he gasped out. "The bulkhead's caught!" "An axe! an axe!" repeated Jim aimlessly. But Tari, with two bounds, reached the caboose, and snatching up the weapon with which he had lately been chopping wood, dashed forward and handed it to Jack, who once more descended, having tied a red silk handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Then the sound of blows could be heard below, as the rolling-stone battled with the flaming bulkhead. Suddenly the chopping ceased, the dense clouds of smoke were redoubled, and a second later flames were perceived. Meanwhile, no signs of Jack. The bucket gang began to grow anxious. "Hey, Jack, cut loose outer that, or you'll get straddled," called Broncho. In response, a faint cry as if from a long way off came floating up. Still no Jack. Moments passed, and it was plain to all that the fire was rapidly gaining on them. "Come up, Jack, come up!" cried the boy wildly. "No use, Jim," growled the cowpuncher. "You can't ride him--no, not with buckin' straps an' a Spanish bit." No responding cry was heard this time. "My God, where is he?" exclaimed Jim with alarm. "He'll suffocate and lose his senses if he stays down there any longer." "I guess I'll just scout 'round an 'see how he's playin' the game. Mebbe them flames makes a winnin' against him," said Broncho leisurely, in his most indifferent tones--the very carelessness a sure sign that he was deeply anxious. "Lemme go, lemme go!" urged Jim, his voice strained and overwrought. "No, son, it's my bet," said the cowpuncher, as he slipped a rope's-end over his shoulders. "Now, you-alls cinch on to the end o' this, an' if I don't show up on the scenery in five minutes, just yank me out, an' don't use no mildness neither"; and down went Broncho.