"If
we're not all down with pneumonia to-morrow, it won't be our own
faults!... Some distance, isn't it, Doctor?"
"It is," returned the doctor grimly. "What a fool the man was to attempt
it!... Here's a footprint, and another."
Yes, and many another after that. They staggered on, wet, cold,
uncomfortable, anxious. The doctor was a little ahead of the rest of
them, Tony West came second, the others straggled a pace or two behind.
Suddenly the doctor stopped and gave a hasty exclamation:
"Good Heavens above!"
They ran up to him clustering around him in their eagerness, and
their torches lent their rays to make the thing he gazed at more
distinguishable, while another mile away at least, the flames twinkled
dimly, and slowly went out one by one as though the finger of dawn had
snuffed them like candle-ends.
"What the devil is it?" demanded Tony West, getting to his knees and
peering at the spot with narrowed eyes.
"Charred grass. And the end of the footprints!" It was the doctor who
spoke--in a queer voice sharp with excitement.
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