"Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more."

"All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine.

That's old Boil O's pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that--not take a copy from somebody's book."

"Quite right," said the artist; "old Boil O's a philosopher."

"I wish he was a sensible man instead," said Will. "I've been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well--"

"That I don't," cried the artist. "I never knew less of any man in my life."

"Well, never mind that; you live here, and I think it would be very nice if you'd get hold of him and talk sensibly, like you can."

"Thank you for the compliment, my young judge."

"I say, don't poke fun, Mr Manners; I want to talk seriously."

"That's right; I like to hear you sometimes, my young joker. I wouldn't give a sou for a fellow who was all fun."

"Well, look here, Mr Manners; I want you to let him see what a jolly old stupid he is making of himself. Of course father can't come and ask him to return to work, but I know that dad would shake hands with him at once, and be as pleased as Punch."

"Well," said the artist, dryly, "I can't quite see in my own mind your grave and reverend parent looking as pleased as Punch; it doesn't seem quite in his way."

"Of course not; but you know what I mean."

"Well, I guess at it, boy; and you mean what is quite right. I should be very glad to do anything for either of you, and to put an end to a melancholy state of affairs; but look here, my dear boy, I don't think that I should be doing right as an outsider, such a bird of pa.s.sage as I am, to say more to Drinkwater than I have already done. He knows what I think; but I want to be friends with everybody here, and I feel sure that by interfering further I should be turning ray landlord into an enemy. I am obliged to say 'no.' And now, if you please, we'll go on with our fly-making, and get our tackle ready for another turn at the trout."

"Well, I am very sorry," said Will, sadly, "and--"

"Whatever's that?" cried Josh, springing to his feet and staring wildly through the open window.

"Eh? Whatever's what?" said the artist, slowly, looking in the same direction. "Why, as Pat would say, it isn't to-morrow morning, and the sun never rises in the west, or he'd be getting up now. Why, by all that's wonderful, it's--"

"Fire! Fire!" shouted Will, wildly.

"Yes," cried Josh, in a husky voice, "and it's at the mill."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GOOD SERVANT--BAD MASTER.

There was no stopping to put away artificial fly material. Hat and caps were s.n.a.t.c.hed up, and the next minute all three were running as fast as the rugged stones and the dangerous nature of the path would allow, downward towards the mill, their faces suffused by the warm glow which rose from out of the valley beyond the trees.

For a few moments the pat, pat of the runners' feet, and the rattle and rush of the stones they dislodged were the only sounds to be heard.

Then came a loud shout from below, a confused murmur of voices, the wild shriek of a woman, followed by the hoa.r.s.e voice of a man, shouting "Fire! Fire!" the last time to be drowned by the loud clang of the mill's big bell, whose tongue seemed to be giving its utterances in a wild, hysterical way, as rope and wheel were set in motion by a pair of l.u.s.ty arms.

There were a couple more zigzags to descend, which never had seemed so long to Will before, and meanwhile the buzz of voices, mingled with shouted orders, grew louder and more confused.

"Shall we never get there?" panted Will.

"Take it coolly, my boy," cried the artist.

"Steady! Cool! Steady!" snapped out Will. "Who can be cool at a time like this?"

"You," said Manners, "and you must. We don't want to get there pumped out and useless in an emergency. We want to help."

"Ha!" panted Josh, as if satisfied with their friend's utterance, and feeling that it exactly expressed his feelings.

"Oh, the poor old mill!" cried Will, as the next minute they came full in sight of the long wooden range of buildings, up one end of which, as if striving to reach the bell turret, great tongues of fire were gliding steadily in a ruddy series, licking at board and beam as they pursued their way.

Just then a thought struck Will, and he breathlessly shouted--

"The engine! The engine! Who says my father was foolish now?"

"I say he was a Solomon," cried Manners. "Hurrah, boys! Let's have the engine out! Plenty of water! Take it coolly; we'll soon have her going now."

He had hardly finished speaking when John Willows' voice rose loudly above the babble of the little crowd, giving orders; and, as the boys rushed up with their friend, an iron bar was heard to rattle, two doors were flung back, and the grinding and crushing sound of wheels over gravel followed, as the little engine was run out with a hearty cheer; the excited men who took the place of horses and pushed wherever they could find a place for their hands, running the machine along the mill front right up towards where the fire was blazing fast, and bringing to it a current of air as it rose, which made the flames burn moment by moment more fiercely, as they obtained a greater hold.

"No, no, no!" yelled Will. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong!

Back with her at once!"

"Nay, it's all right, boys," cried one of the men; "it's all right; go on!"

"It isn't," shouted Will. "Back with her close to the dam!"

"Nay," cried the same voice; "the fire's here."

"I know that!" shouted Will, rushing at him and thrusting him aside.

"Ah, here's father! Give orders, father; it must be close to the water.

The suction-pipe is short."

"Yes, of course," cried Willows. "You're wrong, men. Back with her to the pool there below the wheel! Mr Manners, take the lead, please, over getting out and connecting the hose. Will, see to the suction-pipe, and that its rose is well clear of the gravel. Get to work as soon as you can. Josh, my boy, follow and help me. I'm afraid the place is doomed, Mr Manners; I must go to the office and get out the safe and books."

"Right, sir; we will do our best," cried the artist. "How did it occur?"

"Goodness only knows," was the reply, and each hurried to his appointed task.

They worked well, but, as a matter of course, there was little discipline; every worker thought he knew best, gave his opinions, and hindered the progress of the rest; but at last the engine was in the most favourable place for operating, the suction-pipe attached and hanging down in a deep, dark hole, scooped lower year after year by tons of the water falling from the wheel; while forward, under the artist's guidance, length after length of the hose had been unrolled and the gun-metal screws fitted together till it stretched out far in the glowing light towards the burning timbers. Here, as near as it was safe for man to go, the artist stood in shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up over his ma.s.sive arms, bending down, a picturesque object, like some gladiator fitting his weapon before doing battle with the fiery monster wreathing upwards above his head, as he screwed on the glistening copper branch.

"Ready!" he roared, as Will's father and Josh came out of the open office door laden with heavy ledgers.

"All right!" shouted Will. "Now, boys, all together--pump!"

Cling, clang! Cling, clang! Cling clang! Three times over, the handles rose and fell with a strange, weird sound, and then, as if moved by one impulse, the workers stopped, and, sounding strangely incongruous, a man whose voice was blurred by the north-west country burr shouted--

"Why, t'owd poomp wean't soock!"