Perhaps Hal would have betaken himself to no gentle means if Susan had not hastily put in his way a plentiful supply of dead wood, which she had been letting little George think he picked up all himself; and there was keen excitement, which Christabel could not help sharing, while under Sam’s breath the red edges of the half-burnt chip glowed, flushed, widened, then went sparkling doubtfully, slowly, to the light bit of potato-stalk that he held to it, glowing as he blew—fading, smoking, when he took breath. Try again—puff, puff, puff diligently; the fire evidently has a taste for the delicate little shaving that Annie has found for it; it seizes on it; another—another; a flame at last. Hurrah! pile on more; not too much. “Don’t put it out!” Oh, there! strong flame—coming crackling up through those smothering heaps of stick and haulm; it won’t be kept down; it rises in the wind; it is a red flaring banner. The children shriek in transports of admiration, little George loudest of all, because Susan is holding him tight, lest he should run into the brilliant flame. Miss Fosbrook is rather appalled, but the children are all safe on the windward side, and seem used to it; so she supposes it is all right, and the flame dies down faster than it rose. It is again an innocent smouldering heap, like a volcano after an eruption. “We must not let it blaze again just yet,” said Sam; “keep it down well with sticks, to make some nice white ashes for the potatoes. See, I’ll make an oven.” They were all stooping round this precious hot corner, some kneeling, some sitting on the ground, David with hands on his sturdy knees—all intent on nursing that creeping red spark, as it smouldered from chip to chip, leaving a black trace wherever it went, when through the thick smoke, that was like an absolute curtain hiding everything on the farther side, came headlong a huge bundle of weeds launched overwhelmingly on the fire, and falling on the children’s heads in an absolute shower, knocking Johnnie down, but on a soft and innocent side of the fire among the cabbage-stumps, and seeming likely to bury Sam, who leant over to shelter his precious oven, and puffed away as if nothing was happening, amid the various shouts around him, in which “Purday” was the most audible word. “Ah, so you’ve got at he, after all,” said Purday, leaning on the fork with which he had thrown on the weeds. “Nothing is safe from you.” “What, you thought you had a new place, Purday, and circumvented us!” cried Hal; “but we smelt you out, you old rogue; we weren’t going to be baulked of our bonfire.” Miss Fosbrook here ventured on asking if they were doing mischief; and Purday answered with an odd gruff noise, “Mischief enough—ay, to be sure—hucking the fire all abroad. It’s what they’re always after. I did think I’d got it safe out of their way this time.”