One moment he paused, drawing out his watch.  With a cry of joy, he put his finger on the key.  It was almost the hour at which he was accustomed to exchange morning greetings with Mr. Morton.  He pressed his key and a sharp flash resulted.  Joyously he adjusted his spark-gap until he had a fine, fat stream of fire leaping between the posts.  Then he fairly held his breath as he rapped out the ranger’s call signal.

“JVM—­JVM—­JVM—­CBC,” he called and listened.  There was no response.  Again he called.  And again there was no response.  His face became pale.  His fingers began to tremble.

“JVM—­JVM—­JVM—­CBC,” he rapped out frantically, sending the call again and again.  Then he sat back to listen.  Suddenly his receivers buzzed.  With startling distinctness came the answer.

“CBC—­CBC—­CBC—­I—­I—­I.  Your signals very weak.”

So the ranger could hear, Charley did not care how weak the signals were.

“Forest afire in six places,” he flashed back.  “Wires cut.  Wireless broken.  Talking over temporary outfit.  Notify forester.  Collect all men possible.  Come immediately in trucks to end of new road.  Can get to fires on foot from here easily.”

“Where are fires?” replied Mr. Morton.

“South and west of fire-tower.  In valleys both sides of fire-tower mountain.”

“How far away?”

“About two miles—­maybe three.”

“How big are they?”

“Still small.  Can put out before wind rises.  Must have help quick.”

There was a long pause.  Then came this message, “Have sent neighbor with his automobile to notify forester.  Will rush crew.  Hold fire best you can.  Good-bye.”

With a cry of relief that came from his very soul, Charley threw over his switch and leaped to his feet.  He seized his rifle, then stood a second, hesitating.

“No,” he said decisively, “the man who set those fires won’t wait around to be seen, even if he is a desperate man.”

He slipped his rifle under a clump of bushes and buckled on his little axe.  Then he started down the fire trail at a fast pace.  Now running, now walking, advancing as fast as he could without exhausting himself, Charley hastened toward the fire.  Long before he reached the nearest blaze, 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.