"Yes! and it knocks us out of study for about two months," replied Dave Brandon.

"Maybe they will get a hall somewhere," suggested Tom Clifton.

"Oh, look!" cried Bob, suddenly.

As he spoke, the half-burned timbers of the cupola collapsed and fell with a muffled roar. Then a huge puff of smoke rolled upward, accompanied by a fitful glare of red, while the voices of the crowd swelled into an excited murmur.

The firemen on the roof struggled forward, turned the stream down into the opening, and the last glimmer of light began to slowly fade.

There was much excitement in the crowd, as this seemed to be the critical moment. The Rockville engine fairly roared and shook.

"I'll bet it's under control," said Bob, at length.

"Yes, they've got it now, that's sure," exclaimed Dick Travers.

"Thanks to the Rockville fire company," added Sam.

"Hope you're not going home yet," said Hackett. "I wouldn't mind staying out all night."

"You wouldn't catch me doing it," declared Tommy Clifton decidedly.

"If the moon was up, I'd like to go skating," added Hackett, boastfully, "and I wouldn't sleep all day to-morrow, either."

"I know what you mean," said Dave, with a good-natured grin, "and I suppose I ought to feel pretty badly about it."

"I advise you to stop writing poetry," continued Hackett; "then you won't need so much sleep."

"But then I don't write the kind that puts others to sleep," laughed Brandon, "and that ought to make the matter square."

"In that case, you are forgiven," exclaimed Sam Randall.

"How is Nat Wingate, 'Hatchet'?" asked Bob Somers, at this juncture.

"The doctor says he will have to keep out in the open air as much as possible," replied Hackett. "His lungs seem to be a little weak. Nat thinks of going to some lumber camp—and, by jingo—"

"What's the matter?"

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