He could hear the clatter of the front door as it swung; it seemed to be waving a farewell to him.
It was all the work of a moment, to ride back, gather a quantity of paper and readily inflammable materials, soak them in oil, and scratch a match.

The flames swept up the sides of the logs and caught on the ceiling first of all, and Dan Barry stood in the center of the room until the terrified whining of Black Bart and the teeth of the wolf-dog at his trousers made him turn and leave the house.

Outside, he found Satan trembling between two temptations, the first to run as far and as fast as he could from that most terrible thing--fire; and the second to gallop straight into the blaze.

The voice of the master, a touch quieted him, and Black Bart lay down at the feet of the master and looked up into his face.
By this time the fire had licked away a passage through the roof and through this it sent up a yellow hand that flicked up and down like a signal, or a beckoning, and then shot up a tall, steady, growing, roaring column of red.

No man could say what went through the mind of Dan Barry as he stood there watching the house of his building burn, but now he turned and threw his arms over the neck and back of Satan, and dropped his forehead against the withers of the black.