“Oh, the contemptible coward!  I’d just like to chase after him and get my hands on him once!” was the thought that passed through his brain.

But he knew he could not.  The scoundrel, no matter who it was, must be allowed to escape in order that he turn his attention to the burning shed and try to save the airship from destruction.  Once the fire got inside, there was enough of the dangerous gasoline about to insure the speedy burning of the whole flimsy fabric, all but the motor itself.

So Frank kept headed straight for the hangar, trying to shut out the sight of that crouching, fleeing figure.  He continued to lift his sturdy young voice in repeated shouts: 

“Fire!  Fire!”

Those in the house must hear; yes, and the neighbors, too.  He might not be able to master the flames alone and single handed, and would need help.  Besides, it was only right that Andy, being part owner in the monoplane, should be made aware of its sudden peril.

As he thus drew near the low building he saw that the fire had already gained considerable headway, just as if the incendiary might have used kerosene or some other inflammable fluid, to hasten matters.

Frank’s heart grew cold as ice as he contemplated the rapidity with which those hungry flames were crawling up the dry boards that constituted the side of the shed.

But he did not lose his head in this sudden crisis.  It was characteristic of Frank Bird that, no matter what the emergency, he was always cool enough to think out the proper thing to be done or else jump at it through instinct.

And Frank had foreseen just some such possible need as this.  He even kept several buckets of moist sand handy, where it could be snatched up at a second’s warning, knowing that most fires can be smothered, when quenching them with water is out of the question.

“The buckets!” he gasped, as he arrived close to the building, one part of which was now fairly covered with the creeping tongues of ruddy fire.  “I must use them on it!”

He had to turn the corner of the shed to get to where they stood.  And as he did so he ran plump into a figure that was coming toward him.  Just in time did Frank dodge a big fist that shot out.  And in that second he recognized in the other Shea, the Irishman who had been hired to keep watch of the shed.

“Hold on, Shea!” shouted Frank.  “It’s me, Frank Bird.  Somebody has set fire to the shed!  Grab up a bucket of sand and carry it around here.  We can put it out yet if we’re busy!”

Shea had evidently only been aroused from a sound sleep by the approaching cries of the boy and was still in a daze.  He had discovered the fire, and hearing Frank running toward him, supposed that this must be the one who had done the evil deed.

But he had sense enough to do as he was told now, snatching up one of the sand buckets and following the boy.  Frank immediately commenced fighting the flames with a vim.  He slapped the wet sand at the creeping fire, and wherever it struck there seemed to come a quick abatement of the conflagration.  But it was by this time so extended that as fast as he succeeded in knocking it out in one place it cropped up afresh somewhere else.