"Phew! but it's getting warm in here!" he could not help exclaiming, as the perspiration began to ooze from his pores, and he found himself actually panting for breath. He judged that by now he was in the worst of the fire. This meant that it would have swept past the tree in another couple of minutes, and after that the heat must gradually decrease. Yes, already he felt sure that the loud roaring was growing sensibly less. The wave of fire had passed on, snatching up new supplies of dry fuel as it rushed along its way on the teeth of the wind. More than once his thoughts had gone out to Sandy. "Oh! I hope he stayed where I put him, and that all is well," he kept repeating to himself, as he sweltered in his hot oven. Surely it ought to be getting much more comfortable by now; and yet Bob could not positively say that he felt any cooling influence. Perhaps he would be wise to climb upward toward the exit, ready to thrust his head out, and see how the land lay. No sooner had this idea flashed upon him than he started to carry it out, only to make a very unpleasant discovery. He groped around him, seeking to find some projection that would give a grip or a foothold, but only to meet with grievous disappointment. "Why, what shall I do?" he cried aloud, in his sudden chagrin. "The inside of this old tree is as smooth as an otter slide! And I have no claws, like the bear, to help me climb up!" He tried pushing his back against one side of the hollow, while with his knees and hands he pressed against the opposite wall. It was a favorite trick which Bob had carried out successfully on more than one occasion. Somehow it did not seem to work now. Whether in his excitement he failed to take advantage of every little gain, or because the bear in his frequent passage up and down had polished the chute so that it was impossible for the boy to hold on, was a question Bob never found himself fully qualified to answer. All he knew was that three times he managed to get up a little distance, only to suddenly slide down again and land in a heap at the bottom. His failures were discouraging, to say the least. The worst of it all was that there did not seem to be any hope that, even given time, he could manage to accomplish the task, unless he took out his knife and deliberately hacked notches in the sides of his prison upon which he could rest his toes. That would take hours of time; and meanwhile what of Sandy? "I'll give it another try," he muttered, loth to confess himself beaten, "and then, if I fail to make it, something else must be done, for out of this I'm going to get, by hook or by crook!" This time he took particular pains in his movements. Inch by inch he kept advancing by that shuffling movement that always pushed his figure away from the ground. Hope even began to find a lodgment in his breast, for the bottom of the aperture seemed now within a foot of his reach, and, once let him get a grip on that, he could count the battle won.