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Fitzhugh, Percy Keese, 1876-1950

"Roy Blakely, Pathfinder"

Lift your feet high with each step and follow right in my tracks.
If anybody falls, _shout._"
I said, "We're losing all the time; what's the use?"
"We can keep ahead of it for a couple of hundred yards," he said; "maybe
we'll strike clear land. Anyway, we can't do anything else than give it a
race."
By that time we could feel the heat and sometimes sparks blew almost over
our heads, but they were out when they reached ground. Harry just kept
panting out, "Hustle," and "Keep your nerve."
By now the crackling was loud and I could taste smoke. I knew there wasn't
much chance for us, but I didn't say so. Anywhere a blown fire is bad
enough, but uphill it just rushes. It seemed funny that I'd have to die on
Marjorie's birthday, and all of a sudden I thought how I had tried to
'phone her. Gee, she'd never even know that.
"Hustle," Harry said.
"Do you hear a voice?" Dorry asked; _"listen."_ As plain as could be, I
heard a girl's voice, crying. It kind of seemed as if it might be Marjorie
crying, because I was dead.
Then I heard Hunt Manners say, "Yes, I hear it."
Harry just panted out, "Never mind, step high and hustle.


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