In a moment, he had passed between the tall gate-posts at the entrance.

The air was sharp and keen. Great banks of snow, heaped up along the sides of the street, shone brightly in the glare of electric lights.

As Bob Somers neared the scene, he learned to his astonishment that the high school was on fire.

Kingswood, a wealthy community, had an excellent fire department. It was equipped with a ladder truck and an automobile fire-engine, the motor of which also operated the pumps.

The high school stood back from the street, surrounded by spacious grounds. In the centre of the three-story stone building rose a cupola of attractive design. About a hundred feet distant, the road was bridged over a large pond.

Bob Somers, breathing hard after his run, mingled with the excited groups in front of the school.

A cloud of whitish smoke partially obscured the building, its heaviest portion being toward the western end.

"It's getting away from them, sure," said a man close by. "If they don't hustle along that steamer from Rockville pretty soon the place is a goner."

Breaks in the curling wreaths of smoke revealed a ladder leaning against the wall and a line of hose entering the window above it. The shouts of the volunteers rose above the continuous roar of the Kingswood engine and the excited murmur of the crowd.

"That man is right," thought Bob, with a tremor of excitement; "I only wish something more could be done."

From the midst of the crowd, at a point some distance away, rose a peculiar shout, somewhat like the hooting of an owl.

Instantly Bob Somers threw back his head, and made a similar sound. This was a special signal often used by the Ramblers to call each other.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" cried Bob, lustily.

"Hello yourself!"

In a moment the stout boy hurried forward.

"Isn't it awful, Bob, to see the old school going up like this?" he said.

 Prev. P 5/151 next