"It was Mr. Rupert," answered Jim, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I see him fire it. Let me go on, please, sir." In very astonishment, Mr. Apperley loosed his hold of the boy, who went speeding off in the direction of Barbrook. The farmer propped his back against the stile, that he might gather his scared senses together. Rupert Trevlyn had set fire to the rick-yard! Had he really gone mad?--or was Jim Sanders mad when he said it? The farmer, slow to arrive at conclusions, was sorely puzzled. "The one looked as mad as the other, for what I saw," deliberated he. "Any way, there's the fire, and I'd better make my way to it: they'll want hands if they are to put that out. Thank God, it's a calm night!" He took the nearest way to the Hold; another helper amidst the many now crowding the busy scene. What a babel it was!--what a scene for a painting!--what a life's remembrance! The excited workers as they passed the buckets; the deep interjections of Mr. Chattaway; the faces of the lookers-on turned up to the lurid flames. Farmer Apperley, a man more given to deeds than words, rendered what help he could, speaking to none. He had been at work some time, when a shout broke simultaneously from the spectators. The next rick had caught fire. Mr. Chattaway uttered a despairing word, and the workers ceased their efforts for a few moments--as if paralysed with the new evil. "If the fire-engines would only come!" impatiently exclaimed Mr. Chattaway. Even as he spoke a faint rumbling was heard in the distance. It came nearer and nearer; its reckless pace proclaiming it a fire-engine. And Mr. Chattaway, in spite of his remark, gazed at its approach with astonishment; for he knew there had not been time for the Barmester engines to arrive. It proved to be the little engine from Barbrook, one kept in the village. A very despised engine indeed; from its small size, one rarely called for; and which Mr. Chattaway had not so much as thought of, when sending to Barmester. On it came, bravely, as if it meant to do good service, and the crowd in the rick-yard welcomed it with a shout, and parted to make way for it. Churlish as was Mr. Chattaway's general manner, he could not avoid showing pleasure at its arrival. "I am glad you have come!" he exclaimed. "It never occurred to me to send for you. I suppose you saw the flames, and came of your own accord?" "No, sir, we saw nothing," was the reply of the man addressed. "Mr. Ryle's lad, Jim Sanders, came for us. I never see a chap in such commotion; he a'most got the engine ready himself." The mention of Jim Sanders caused a buzz around. Bridget's assertion that the offender was Rupert Trevlyn had been whispered and commented upon; and if some were found to believe the whisper, others scornfully rejected it. There was Mr. Chattaway's assertion also; but Mr. Chattaway's ill-will to Rupert was remembered that night, and the assertion was doubtfully received. A meddlesome voice interrupted the fireman.