Discovering this, he abandoned his
beginning and fell back twenty feet. This naturally considerably
lengthened the line he would have to cut. When it was about half done,
Bob discovered that he would have to hustle to prevent the fire breaking
by him before he could complete his half-circle. It became a race. He
worked desperately. The heat of the flames began to scorch his face and
hands, so that it was with difficulty he could face his work.
Irrelevantly enough there arose before his mind the image of Jack
Pollock popping corn before the fireplace at headquarters. Continual
wielding of the hoe tired a certain set of muscles to the aching point.
His mouth became dry and sticky, but he could not spare time to hunt up
his canteen. The thought flashed across his mind that the fire was
probably breaking across elsewhere, just like this. The other men must
be in the same fix. There were six of them. Suppose the fire should
break across simultaneously in seven places? The little licking flames
had at last, by dint of a malignant persistence, become a personal
enemy. He fought them absorbedly, throwing his line farther and farther
as the necessity arose, running to beat down with green brush the first
feeble upstartings of the fire as it leaped here and there his barrier,
keeping a vigilant eye on every part of his defences.
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