When day came again,
without striking a single futile blow at the heart of the fire, they
had drawn the enemy's teeth and clipped his claws--in so far as the
flats of the Toba were threatened. The fire would burn up to that
cleared path and burn itself out--with men stationed along to beat out
each tiny flame that might spring up by chance. And when that was
done, they rested on their oars, so to speak; they took time to sit
down and talk without once relaxing their vigilance.
In a day or two the fire would die out against that barrier, always
provided the west wind did not rise and in sportive mockery fling
showers of sparks across to start a hundred little fires burning in
the woods behind their line of defense. A forest fire was never beaten
until it was dead. The men rested, watched, patrolled their line. They
looked at the sky and sighed for rain. A little knot of them gathered
by a tree. Some one had brought a box of sandwiches, a pail of coffee
and tin cups. They gulped the coffee and munched the food and
stretched themselves on the soft moss.
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