"You take the pail," he cried. "You fight the fire." And while Stanley
looked puzzledly after him, Benito charged through a circle of
spectators up the hill. He did not know that his face was almost black;
that his eyebrows and the little foreign moustache of which they had
made fun at the mines was charred and grizzled. He knew only that Alice
might be in danger. That the fire might have spread west as well as east
and north.
As he sped up Washington street another loud explosion drummed against
his ears. A shout followed it. Benito neither knew nor cared for its
significance. Five minutes later he stumbled across his own doorsill,
calling his wife's name. There was no answer. Frenziedly he shouted
"Alice! Alice!" till at last a neighbor answered him.
"She and Mrs. Stanley and the baby went to Preacher Taylor's house. Is
the fire out?"
"No," returned Benito. Once more he plunged down hill, seized a bucket
and began the interminable passing of water. He looked about for Adrian
but did not see him. He became a machine, dully, persistently,
desperately performing certain ever-repeated tasks.
Hours seemed to pass. Then, of a sudden, something interrupted the
accustomed trend.
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