Tug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His only comfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary's little shop, which she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon had rattled and bumped away out of sight there was a general feeling in Brine's Rip that the whole place had gone flat, like stale beer, and the saws did not seem to make as cheerful a shrieking as before, and Black Saunders, expert runner of logs as he was, fell in because he forgot to look where he was going, and knocked his head heavily in falling, and was almost drowned before they could fish him out. "There's goin' to be some bad luck comin' to Brine's Rip afore long," remarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism. "It's come, Long," said the Deputy. That same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills right across the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except a few light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About a week later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from the village and straight across the river. And once more a single night-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire. A little before daybreak on the second night following this change of wind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splash from the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gathered before being fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman's voice. As fast as he could stumble over the intervening deals and rubbish he made his way to the spot, waving his lantern and calling anxiously. There was no sign of any one in the water. As he searched he became conscious of a ruddy light at one corner of the mill. He turned and dashed back, yelling "Fire! Fire!" at the top of his lungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other corners of the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemical extinguisher, yelling madly all the while. But he was already too late. The flames were licking up the dry wood with furious appetite. In almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole great structure was ablaze, with all Brine's Rip, in every varying stage of _déshabille_, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine worked heroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, and then turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep them drenched. "Thank God the wind's in the right direction," muttered Zeb Smith, the storekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoed fervently through the crowd. In the meantime Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do in the way of fighting the fire--the mill being already devoured--was interviewing the distracted watchman. "Sure," he agreed, "it was a trick to git you away long enough for the fires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an' chucked in a big stick, that's all. An', o' course, you run to help. You couldn't naturally do nothin' else."