which boys are apt to possess.

It was one of those cold, keen winter nights when the comforts of a warm and cozy room seem especially attractive. The weather was clear, but the streets were white with snow, and a slight breeze made the tree-tops sigh and murmur.

Suddenly Bob Somers raised his eyes from the paper before him and listened intently.

The booming of a bell came over the frosty air, now very faint, then rising clearly, as the sound of the breeze sank to a low, droning whisper.

"My gracious!" cried Bob. "The fire-bell!"

For a second time, the ominous notes pealed forth, two coming close together, then, after a brief pause, seven in succession.

"Box twenty-seven! I wonder where it is."

The fire-alarm was seldom heard in the quiet little town of Kingswood, and the sound made his pulse quicken.

He hastily opened a door and made his way to an iron staircase which led to the tower. Up two steps at a time he bounded, until a small square room was reached. It had windows on all sides and commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.

Bob Somers peered eagerly out at the icy winter scene. The limits of the snow-covered grounds of Pembroke Hall were defined by a row of electric lights on the highway. Beyond, several residences appeared faintly against the sky, but nearly all else was lost in gloom. Myriads of stars shone brilliantly.

A faint, hazy patch, as of smoke illuminated by an electric light, appeared above a dark line of trees.

"That must be the fire," murmured Bob, in some excitement. "Great Cæsar! It's near the schoolhouse."

Dashing down-stairs, he quickly donned his overcoat and hat.

"Fo' goodness' sakes, what am de matter?" inquired Peter Lexington, the colored boy, in astonishment.

"There's a fire, Peter! Can't stop to talk now."

"Fo' de lub of goodness! a fire?"

The surprising intelligence seemed to deprive Peter of all movement, and before he could utter another word, Bob was off.

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