about eighteen, and the son of the postmaster. Bob and Betty ran down to the road to see him as he stopped his motorcycle with skillful abruptness.
"Will Watterby told me you were out here," he called as soon as he saw Bob. "Say, two more wells caught last night, and they say it's absolutely the biggest fire we've ever had. The close drilling has made the trouble. Remember how Mr. Gordon used to rave over so many derricks on an acre? Don't you want to come with me, Bob? I'd take you, too, Betty, but it is no place for a girl."
Ed Manners waved an inviting hand towards the side-car. Bob was eager to go—what boy would not be?—and he knew that not to go would mean that he was missing something which in all probability he would never see again.
"Go ahead, Bob," urged Betty bravely. "I'll be all right. Honestly I will. If you don't get back to-night, why. Doctor Morrison will be out in the morning."
But Bob had made up his mind. He heard clearly again the final commands of Mr. Gordon, his Uncle Dick, for whom he would do far more than this.
"Can't go, Ed," he said briefly and finally. "Sorry, but it isn't to be thought of. Betty and I have a job cut out for us right here."
