Then he rushed to Reuben’s room on the lower floor, wakened the old man, and told him to fill every bucket he could find with water from the well. Lastly, he ran to his parents, breaking the news gently so as not to terrify his mother. By this time the alarm bell was clanging its quick strokes out into the night. Dick ran out of the house to the well-head near the dismantled stables, where Reuben already had two buckets filled and was still pumping vigorously. He caught up the buckets, hurried to the conflagration, and flung the water on the flames. But it was clear that they had got such a hold upon the shed that to extinguish them with water laboriously pumped from the well would be impossible. The wind was steadily carrying the fire toward the main building, and unless the blaze could be checked within a few minutes, the old place was doomed. To fetch more water would, Dick saw, be a waste of time. What could be done? Between the burning tool-shed and the dwelling-house was a long wooden structure that contained the brew-house and a shed in which Reuben kept vegetables, grain for the pigs, and other materials. Dick remembered that the brew-house, though substantially built, was worm-eaten, and, like the rest of the Towers, had not been repaired within memory. Acting on an idea which had suddenly struck him, he ran at full speed to the scullery, brought thence a rope and, returning, made his way with it through the smoke into the brew-house, and attached it firmly to one of the stout timbers supporting the roof. The Squire had now come upon the scene. "We must pull down the brew-house, Father," cried Dick. "’Tis the only chance to prevent the flames from spreading." Together they hauled upon the rope. The timber did not give an inch. They summoned Reuben to assist them, but the oak, worm-eaten though it was, resisted their united efforts. "Once more! Pull all together," cried Dick in despair. The post did not move. "Ha, Squire!" shouted a voice behind, "I see what you are about. ’Tis a good notion. Give me a hold." "Polwhele, ’tis you. We’ll be glad of your arm." "Did you ride, sir?" cried Dick eagerly. "I did," replied the riding-officer. "Egad! I see your meaning. My horse is hitched to the fence. I’ll bring him in a second."