Flip's Islands of Providence by Annie Fellows Johnston

There was no faster runner in the village than Alec Stoker. In the last two field-day contests he had carried off the honours, and now he surpassed all previous records in that mad dash from the hotel to the burning house.

Swift as he was, however, the flames were bursting from the windows of his room by the time he reached the gate, and curling up over the eaves with long, licking tongues. It was as he had feared. He had forgotten to put out the light, the curtains had blown over it, and, fanned by the rising wind, the fire had leaped from curtain to bed, from mosquito-bar to wall, until the whole room was in a blaze.