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Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

"The Forfeit"


As they drew nearer it became apparent that the havoc was even greater
than they had first supposed. A wide patch of woodland, hundreds of
acres in extent, whose upper limits were confined only by the summit of
the valley's slope, where it cut the sky-line, had been completely
burnt out. Nor was it possible to tell if even that limit was the
extent of the disaster.
Bud suddenly reined in his horse as they came abreast of it, and his
voice broke with painful sharpness upon the deathly stillness of the
world about them.
"It's gone," he cried, with a note of deep distress and grievous
disappointment. "It's burnt right out to a shell. Say----"
"What's gone?"
The older man glanced round. Then his troubled eyes sought the charred
remains of the splendid pines once more.
"Why--the post." Then he pointed amongst the charred skeletons. "Get
a peek right in ther'. See, Jeff. Them walls; them fallen logs.
Burnt. Burnt right through to the heart of 'em. That's all that's
left of the home that sheltered me for the first sixteen years of my
life.


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