“One good thing done, anyhow,” muttered Bainbridge, with a fierce kind of satisfaction. He hesitated an instant, wondering whether to pause and make the fellow secure, or hurry on toward the burning building. Brief as had been the space since it first showed, the fire was beginning to break forth, illumining the sky, and making the mill seem almost like a flaming furnace within. There was little chance of accomplishing any good there, while it would be a pity if one of the undoubted criminals escaped. He had made up his mind, and was searching through his pockets for something to bind the fellow with, when a scream rang out, so wild and full of agonized appeal that it chilled his blood. It came from the burning building, and in an instant Bob was running toward it with all his might. He raced around a corner, peering through windows as he ran. The front half of the building was one glare of flaming crimson, in which no human being could live a minute. The man--it was the watchman, of course--must be in the rear. He kept on around. Reaching another window, he smashed it with a piece of “edging” caught up from the ground, letting out a volume of smoke. With a bound he was inside, facing the glare which came from the billowing mass of fire. “Tom!” he cried, shielding his face with one crooked arm. “Tom! Where are you?” There was no answer. Crouching low and holding his breath, he hurried toward a portion of the mill which overlooked the river. Behind him the flames closed in with chuckling crackles like sentient things of murderous intent bent on cutting off his retreat. “Tom!” he cried again. “Where are----” The words died in his throat. Sprawled across the log carrier near one of the huge circular saws was the inert body of a man. The fire had almost reached it, but Bainbridge plunged forward without faltering. Through heat that singed hair and eyebrows, and seemed to sear his lungs with the breath of death he plunged. Stooping, he grasped the unconscious man by the shoulders, and dragged him across the floor. He could not retreat as he had come. He did not try. He was making for the opening to the runway or chute over which logs were yanked up from the river. This was rather steep and slippery, and he was forced to change his grip on the man. An instant later he gave a cry of amazement as he recognized the blackened, bloody features of his own riverman. But there was not a second to lose in speculation as to what Curly was doing here. The glare of the burning building lit up the whole river, and already from the other side came cries of arriving villagers. He could see them running; doubtless many of them saw him as he paused in the fire-lit arch of the chute with the unconscious youth in his arms. “It’s a swim for it,” he muttered, glancing at Kollock. “Not much of a one, but mighty cold. Reckon we’ll be on our way.”