“You can. I'm going to fish,” said Peter briefly. “I thought we came up here to talk about Perks's birthday,” said Phyllis. “Perks's birthday'll keep.” So they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not catch anything. It was almost quite dark, the girls were getting tired, and as Bobbie said, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, “What's that?” And she pointed to the canal boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all the time--but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were from the cabin door. “It's on fire--that's all,” said Peter, calmly. “Serve him right.” “Oh--how CAN you?” cried Phyllis. “Think of the poor dear dog.” “The BABY!” screamed Bobbie. In an instant all three made for the barge. Her mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong enough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against the bank. Bobbie was first--then came Peter, and it was Peter who slipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet could not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge. Phyllis caught at his hair. It hurt, but it helped him to get out. Next minute he had leaped on to the barge, Phyllis following. “Not you!” he shouted to Bobbie; “ME, because I'm wet.” He caught up with Bobbie at the cabin door, and flung her aside very roughly indeed; if they had been playing, such roughness would have made Bobbie weep with tears of rage and pain. Now, though he flung her on to the edge of the hold, so that her knee and her elbow were grazed and bruised, she only cried:-- “No--not you--ME,” and struggled up again. But not quickly enough. Peter had already gone down two of the cabin steps into the cloud of thick smoke. He stopped, remembered all he had ever heard of fires, pulled his soaked handkerchief out of his breast pocket and tied it over his mouth. As he pulled it out he said:-- “It's all right, hardly any fire at all.” And this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter. It was meant to keep Bobbie from rushing after him into danger. Of course it didn't. The cabin glowed red. A paraffin lamp was burning calmly in an orange mist. “Hi,” said Peter, lifting the handkerchief from his mouth for a moment. “Hi, Baby--where are you?” He choked. “Oh, let ME go,” cried Bobbie, close behind him. Peter pushed her back more roughly than before, and went on. Now what would have happened if the baby hadn't cried I don't know--but just at that moment it DID cry. Peter felt his way through the dark smoke, found something small and soft and warm and alive, picked it up and backed out, nearly tumbling over Bobbie who was close behind. A dog snapped at his leg--tried to bark, choked. “I've got the kid,” said Peter, tearing off the handkerchief and staggering on to the deck.