From Squire to Squatter Part 13

"Guess."

"Guess, indeed! Goodness forbid I should try. But I say, brother,"

continued Uncle Ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and find yourself a king? My stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as your reign lasted! The breakfast, Mary? Ah, that's the style!"

"You won't be serious and listen, I suppose, Ramsay."

"Oh, yes; I will."

"Well, the Americans--"

"The Americans again; but go on."

"The Americans, in some parts where I've been, wouldn't lose a straw in a bad season. It is all done by means of great fanners and heated air, you know. Now, I'm going to show these honest Northumbrian farmers a thing or two. I--"

"I say, brother, hadn't you better trust to Providence, and wait for a fair wind?"

"Now, Ramsay, that's where you and I differ. You're a slow Moses. I want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. I've been looking all over the dictionary of my daily life, and I can't find such a word as 'wait' in it."

"Let me give you some of this steak, brother."

"My plan of operations, Ramsay, is--"

"Why," said Mrs Broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!"

"I thought," said Uncle Ramsay, "you were as hungry as a Tipperary Highlander, or some such animal."

"My plan, Ramsay, is--" etc, etc.

The two "etc, etc's" in the last line stand for all the rest of the honest Squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as long as the logline. But for all his hunger he made but a poor breakfast, and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the barn-yards.

It was a busy time for the next two weeks at Burley Old Farm, but, to the Squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. His ricks were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing about the expense. But he did take an hour or two one evening to run through accounts, as he called it. Uncle Ramsay was with him.

"Why, brother," said Ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you are terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!"

"Ah! never mind, Ramsay. One can't keep ahead of the times now-a-days, you know, without spending a little."

"Spending a little! Where are your other books? Mr Walton and I will have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind."

"Not a bit, brother, not a bit. We're going to give a dance to-morrow night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the book-work I'll attend to the terpsich.o.r.ean kick up."

Mr Walton and Uncle Ramsay had a snack in the office that evening instead of coming up to supper, and when Mrs Broadbent looked in to say good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work.

"I say, Walton," said Uncle Ramsay some time after, "this is serious.

Draw near the fire and let us have a talk."

"It is sad as well as serious," said Walton.

"Had you any idea of it?"

"Not the slightest. In fact I'm to blame, I think, for not seeing to the books before. But the Squire--"

Walton hesitated.

"I know my brother well," said Ramsay. "As good a fellow as ever lived, but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. And now he has been spending money on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds. He has been growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the prairies and the land was new; and he has really been putting as much down in seed, labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off."

"Yet," said Walton, "he is no fool."

"No, not he; he is clever, too much so. But heaven send his pride, honest though it be, does not result in a fall."

The two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they opened the cas.e.m.e.nt and walked out on to the lawn. It was a lovely autumn night. The broad, round moon was high in the heavens, fighting its way through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly detracted from its radiance.

"Look, Walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night."

"By-and-by. Yes," sighed Walton.

"But see! What is that down yonder rising white over the trees? Smoke!

Why, Walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!"

Almost at the same moment Branson rushed upon the scene.

"Glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "Wake the Squire. The servants are all astir. We must save the beasts, come of everything else what will."

The farm-steading of Burley was built in the usual square formation round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so well filled that beasts might lie out all night. To the north were the stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blew from that direction. It was by no means high; but fire makes its own wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught.

From the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rolling clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that to save any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility.

With all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the Squire had not established a fire brigade on his farm. But fire was an eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and now there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration.

As soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save the live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could be done save taking the doors off their hinges.

Who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out, and away to a place of safety? In some instances, when they had nearly succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to the straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of their fellows. Thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives.

They were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly owing to Archie's presence of mind. He had dashed madly into the stable for his pet Scallowa. The Shetland pony had never looked more wild before. He sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. All at once it occurred to Archie to mount and ride him out. No sooner had he got on his back than he came forth like a lamb. He took him to a field and let him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little Peter.

"Come, Peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses."

The two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridled and mounted by little Peter and ridden out.

But a fearful hitch occurred. Tell, the Squire's hunter, backed against the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning Archie, who found it impossible to open the door.

The roof had already caught. The horses were screaming in terror, and rearing wildly against the walls.

Peter rushed away to seek a.s.sistance. He met Branson, and in a word or two told him what had happened.

Luckily axes were at hand, and st.u.r.dy volunteers speedily smashed the door in, and poor Archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and bleeding face, was dragged through.

The scene after this must be left to imagination. But the Squire reverently and fervently thanked G.o.d when the shrieks of those fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heard save the crackle and roar of the flames.

The fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. The moonlight itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast shadows against it.