The main room of the express shed was one bright blur
of brilliancy and colored smoke.
It rolled and whirled, obliterating all outlines within the room.
"Father! father!" shouted Bart, dashing recklessly in at the open
doorway.
He could not make out a single object in that chaos, but he knew the
location of every familiar article in the place, and made for the chair
in which his father usually sat.
"Father!" he screamed, as his hands touched the arms of the chair and
found it empty.
The sulphurous flames nearly choked him, the heat from the crackling
wooden partition singed his hair, but he could only grope about blindly.
"Here he is," sounded a suffocating voice.
"Where, oh! where?" panted Bart.
He threw out his arms wildly, groping to locate the speaker, whom he
knew to be the roustabout. "Where is he--where is he?"
He had come in contact with the roustabout now, who with all his
timidity was proving himself a hero in the present instance.
"Lying on the floor--stumbled over him--I'm on fire, too!"
Bart's feet touched a prostrate form. It was moved along as Bart stooped
and got hold of the shoulders.
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