Round Robin by Abbie Farwell Brown — Read

It was a warm July night. The Camp lay quiet and serene, everybody sound asleep. The heat of the day, which had been unusual for the region, had brought out the spicy scent of the woods, and mingled it with the salty fragrance which makes the essence of Maine. But into the natural blend of outdoors came creeping another odor, not exactly unpleasant, but very different; a stinging disquiet for which the forest creatures have no name, only an instinctive fear. For it is no friendly fragrance, but one that spells danger and death. It was the smell of wood smoke.

The young men in their tents further south than Round Robin were the first to get the tang. They turned over uneasily in their sleep. Then Hugh sat up on his cot and sniffed. He was wide awake in a moment, like a true soldier, and jumped out of bed. "Fire! " he thought. And his first fear was that the hearth-blaze at Round Robin had caught the bungalow. With dread at heart he hurried out of the tent and ran up the path to his mother's camp. But he soon saw that the smoke was not coming from that direction. The slight wind was from the south, and it brought with it a dense cloud of smoke, drifting through the trees. The fire was not far away.