Charley smelled smoke. As he drew near the fire, he studied it as best he
could. He rejoiced that it was so small. The mist bank and the heavy fall
of dew had so moistened things that the fire crept but slowly.

Charley cut a pine branch and fell upon the flames ferociously. A great
anger surged up in his heart, like the fierce passion that takes
possession of a bull when he sees red. It lent power and determination to
him. Yet Charley tried to conserve his strength. Yard after yard he beat
out the flames, thankful that he had to face only a little creeping fire.
Small as it was, the blaze was, nevertheless, hot and stifling.

Rod after rod Charley fought his way around the ring of fire, never
pausing for a single instant to rest. By the time he had completed the
circle and the blaze was out, Charley was beginning to tire badly. He
doubted if he could beat out the six fires alone. If they grew any larger,
he knew he could not. And larger they were becoming, for the first faint
puffs of the morning breeze were beginning to stir the tree tops.

Half a mile through the trees Charley smashed his way to the next ring of
fire. He could see that the flames were leaping a little higher and that
they were eating their way along at a faster pace than the first fire had
traveled. He knew it would be hard to stop this blaze. But he cut a new
bough, and gritting his teeth, once more fell to fighting fire.

Quickly he found it was quite a different fire from the one he had
extinguished. Fitfully the wind was coming up. When it blew, the flames
seemed to leap at Charley. His shoes, his clothes, his hands and wrists
were blistered by the heat. His fingers were torn and his muscles ached.
His lungs and throat became painful. His eyes grew blurred. He could no
longer see clearly. There was a ringing noise in his ears. Yet coughing,