Monty went back to Morris House just in time to squeeze in before the door was locked. In fact, Mrs. Fair was about to perform that rite when he entered. “I heard someone coming,” she said, “but I thought you were in, Monty. You should have been, you know. Now that you are on the football team you should try very hard to be in bed by ten.”
“Yes, I know, Mother. I didn’t mean to make it so late. It’s awfully cold tonight, isn’t it?”
“Very,” she agreed as she locked the door. “I told Collins to leave the draft on a little tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised to see snow in the morning.”
“It’s cold enough,” agreed Monty, from the stairs. “It’s nice and warm in the house, though. Good-night, Mother.”
Standart was not in bed when Monty reached the room, but he was ready for it, chastely attired in a pair of striped blue-and-white pyjamas. Monty deigned him one brief glance and Standart, although he strove to appear at ease, quailed. Then, probably vastly relieved at Monty’s silence and disregard, he laid aside the book he had been pretending to read and crawled under the covers. Monty undressed quickly, grimly pushed one of the window sashes to its full height, turned out the light and retired. But he wasn’t sleepy. There were so many things to think of. Standart didn’t interest him especially, although he knew that that youth was, like himself, lying awake in the darkness. When the time came he would attend to Standart very thoroughly, but he felt no temptation to break his promise to Leon. He thought about the trip home to Terre Haute, settling in his mind the details of packing and purchasing tickets and so on. But underneath was the ache of disappointment. It was nearly midnight when he at last fell asleep.
It seemed to him that it must be morning when he next awoke, but the windows showed only a twinkling star or two in their purple-black squares. He wondered sleepily what had disturbed him, and turned over to burrow his head again into the pillow. But full consciousness came in the act and he sat up, sniffing perplexedly. There was a distinct smell of wood smoke in the room. He knew the odor too well to mistake it. Perhaps it came in at the window, he thought. The room was very cold and he hesitated a moment before he finally got up his courage and pushed a shrinking leg out from under the covers. Once on his feet, however, he jumped across the floor and switched the light on, for the smoke was thick at the height of his head. One startled glance showed the room fairly blue with it. It was thick enough to trouble his eyes and his throat. Hurriedly he strode to the door and looked out, or tried to, but such a billow of the acrid stuff surged in on him that he followed his first impulse and swung the door shut again. But then, taking a breath, he once more threw it open and stepped into the hall. There was a faint, dull-red glow showing between the spindles of the railing, about the staircase well. As he looked it died away, reappeared and again waned. His ears caught at that instant the faint but steady crackling of burning wood.
He shut his eyes very tightly, not so much to keep out the stinging smoke as to concentrate his thoughts. Then he turned and climbed the stairs swiftly to the upper floor. There were three rooms there and on the door of each Monty thumped resoundingly.
“Tappen! Farnsworth! Are you awake? All out, fellows! The house is on fire! Don’t stop to dress. Drag something on and hustle down. We’ve got to fight it!”
He was plunging down the stairs again before the doors up there began to open and excited questions followed him. On his own floor he pounded at door after door, repeating the same warning: “All out, fellows! Fire! Get something on and come down!” As he passed Number 14 he remembered Standart and went in and shook, that youth roughly.
“Get up, Standart!” he cried. “The house is on fire!”
The sleeper grunted, opened his eyes and stared blankly at Monty. But that youth, having pulled on his dressing gown, was already hurrying back to the corridor. Joe Mullins, struggling into trousers over his pyjamas, was already there, and the upper stairs creaked under the flying feet of the third floor fellows. “Have you telephoned to the fire department?” demanded Mullins.
“Not yet. Will you do it? I’ll wake up Mother Morris. Bring the extinguishers from each floor, fellows. The fire’s in the cellar, I guess. Tap, you beat it over and get the fellows in Fuller up. Come on, now!”
They hurried down the lower flight in a smother of smoke. Mullins groped his way to the telephone and Tappan slipped through the front door on his way to alarm the occupants of the next house. Monty beat a tattoo on Mrs. Fair’s door, finally opening it and calling. There was no reply, however, and he swung the door wider and looked in. The light was burning low and a glance was enough to show that the room was empty, although the disordered bed suggested recent occupation. The others had swung open the door that led to the basement only to retreat. Black smoke billowed out at them and filled their eyes and throats. Someone slammed the door shut again as Monty strode past, choking and with streaming eyes, and sought the kitchen. A small passage with a door that opened on the rear of the house intervened, and as he groped his way through it the sound of crackling and roaring became louder. And then two things happened simultaneously. He faced the partly-open door of the kitchen and saw the flames eating their way across the floor and up the further wall and he stumbled over something underfoot and went crashing against the door with a force that at any other time would have left him half-stunned. Somehow he saved himself from measuring his length on the kitchen floor as the door swung wide under his weight and, recovering, stooped and groped at his feet. Then his voice rang out.
“Help here, fellows!” But the others were close behind him, and in a moment they were carrying Mrs. Fair back to her room. “She’s fainted,” Farnsworth panted. “I’ll look after her. You fellows go on.”
Mullins joined them and they returned to the kitchen and, covering their faces with crooked arms, launched the contents of the three fire-extinguishers at the flames. But the effect was no more than noticeable.
“That’s all we can do unless we can get water,” shouted Monty. “Isn’t there a hose somewhere?”
“It’s in the cellar,” answered one of the boys.
“Close the door,” said Mullins. “Maybe we can keep the fire there until the engine comes.”
“Did you get them?” Monty asked.
“Yes, finally. It will take them ten minutes to get here, though. Aren’t there some pails we can get?”
“At the other house!” shouted someone. “We can get the hose, too! Come on, fellows!”
“Someone ought to telephone to faculty,” gasped Mullins. “I’ll do it. You fellows go ahead.”
“Is everyone down?” asked Monty. “Wait! How about the cook?”
“She’s all right. She’s in with Mother,” answered Farnsworth. “Let’s get to work with buckets, fellows.”
They returned to the hall and as they crowded along Monty’s gaze fell on the glass transom above the dining-room door. It shone fiery red. He turned the knob and took one hasty survey of the room. Beyond the long table with its white cloth flames were licking at the wall. He closed the door again tightly and groaned.
“It’s worse there than in the kitchen,” he said to Mullins, who was impatiently sputtering into the telephone.
“Ring again, Operator! There must be someone there! Hurry, can’t you? Hello! What? Oh, is that you, Mr. Craig? This is Mullins, Morris House. This place is on fire.” Mullins was trying hard to be calm and coherent. “In the cellar. Yes, sir, pretty bad. I’ve telephoned to the department. We’re trying to get water on it. All right, sir!”
Mullins hung the receiver up and dashed, choking for the door. Outside, several Fuller House fellows were running across the intervening lawn, scantily clad, excited and curious. Monty shouted them back.
“Get your hose, fellows, and all the buckets you can find!” he cried. “Don’t run around like that!”
“They’re getting it,” one of them answered breathlessly. “How bad is it? Where is it?”
But Monty was already hurrying across to where a knot of boys was pulling the garden hose from the bulkhead. In a minute they had it connected at a sill-cock under the bay-window, but the water didn’t come and someone remembered that it was turned off in the cellar. The Fuller House fellows were pouring out now, armed with anything in the shape of buckets or pitchers they could find, and presently a bucket line was established across the lawn and the hose was spurting. At that moment the bell in School Hall set up its clangor. It was Monty who kicked in the little window to the cellar nearest the furnace, where the fire had started, presumably from an overheated flue, and directed the stream of the hose. Someone found a step-ladder, set it against the dining-room bay and climbed it, bucket in hand, only to topple off, with the ladder coming down on top of him. But some degree of order and method was finally established and the two dozen or so youths made a courageous fight of it. By that time other fellows began appearing on the scene, hastily clad residents of Lothrop and Trow and Manning, and Mr. Craig, the superintendent of buildings, accompanied by the school janitor and his assistant, also arrived. They had brought the two school apparatus, tanks of chemical extinguisher mounted on trucks and supplied with long lines of hose, and Mr. Craig took command of the battle.
The window in the kitchen crumbled and the flames, hitherto confined inside, burst out. Monty was instructed to direct his energies with the garden hose there while the chemical extinguishers were run around to the front and the hose from them dragged into the house. It was at this stage that the Grafton Fire Department made a belated appearance with much éclat and confusion. Several minutes were spent in finding the hydrant and making a connection, but at last two streams were playing on the fire. Monty caught sight of Mrs. Fair and the cook being helped along the sidewalk to Fuller. For the first time he thought of his possessions. It seemed to him that all the fire departments in the state could not save the old wooden building and he wondered whether it would be permissible to hand his job to another and try to rescue his clothes and other belongings. But if Monty had forgotten the task of salvage others had not, it seemed, for already the street in front of the house began to present an incongruous appearance in the light of the street lamps as chairs and couches and various articles of furniture were borne from the first floor rooms and dumped helter-skelter in the road. There were a few things that Monty set store by, and, since another could direct the inadequate stream from the garden hose as well as he, he speedily found a substitute and made his way through the curious and excited throng to the front.
The front door had been torn off and in and out of the murky interior of the doomed house the firemen were hurrying. Two pulsing lines of white hose writhed up the steps and into the lurid depths of the building. A fat fireman with a helmet cocked erratically on one side of his head was pushing the volunteer salvage corps away.
“That’ll do,” Monty heard him vociferating. “’Tain’t safe no more. Them walls is likely to come down. Keep out, everyone of you!”
From where he stood, a dozen yards from the house, Monty could see that the whole left side of the house was destroyed. The firemen appeared to be concentrating their efforts on the other half, trying to cut off the flames at the hall which ran from front to rear through the center. He looked upward. The second floor windows showed dark, but smoke curled from them. He made his way around to the far side of the house and looked at the window of Number 14. The light that he had left burning was out and the open window showed first black and then dull red. He didn’t believe that the flames had reached there yet, but as they wouldn’t let him past the door there was no chance of rescuing anything. Well, it couldn’t be helped, he reflected. Although if he could find a ladder somewhere he could easily get in at the window. A few fellows were prowling around on that side, but no one paid any attention to him as he lifted the doors of the bulkhead, fortunately unlocked, and peered into the darkness below. As he knew, there was a division wall between this side of the basement and the furnace compartment. Such tools as the lawn-mower and rake and garden hose and ladder were stored there, and Mrs. Fair kept her geraniums hanging against the wall like so many scalps. The air was hot and acrid with smoke, but no sign of flames showed as he stumbled down the half-dozen steps. But once down there the smoke was almost intolerable and the sound of the fire, the hiss of water and the blows of axes were deafening. But he put his hand readily on what he sought and swung it from the wall and went staggering up the steps with it.
The ladder was short and used chiefly to wash windows and prune the few trees around the house, but when Monty had it leaning against the side of the building under his window he saw that it would answer his purpose. The highest rung was a foot under the sill, but he could easily pull himself up and into the room. With his foot on the first round, he paused. Then he took off the dressing-gown he wore and dropped it beside the ladder. “No use having that thing tripping me up,” he muttered. Then he climbed the ladder. At the top a gust of hot, evil-smelling air blew into his face, but he laid hold of the sill, got a foot on the top rung and pulled himself upward and into the room. Darkness that was now and then tinged with a red-brown glow from the transom filled the room, that and an almost intolerable smoke. He wished there was some way of making a light as he hesitated an instant at the window, but he hadn’t so much as a match and doubted if a match would be of any use in that murk if he could find one. Taking a deep breath of the clearer air at the window he dashed across to the alcove and found a towel. This he dipped in the pitcher and then wound hurriedly across his face beneath the eyes. There was no way to fasten it, so he held it with his left hand while, with his right, he pulled open the drawers of his bureau. For the next three minutes he worked at top speed, bumping into things as, with closed eyes, he hurried from closet to bureau, from bureau to window. He managed to get his bag packed with clothes and a few articles that he prized, and then, clasping it, he dropped it from the window and heard it thump against the ground.
He stayed there a long moment, the towel off, breathing in lungfuls of fresh air. He wondered if Standart had saved any of his things. Wondered, in case he hadn’t what he valued most. He tried to think of anything else of his own that was worth bothering about and finally ducked back again and secured a handful of underwear from a bottom drawer and dumped it through the casement. Some of the things landed against the ladder and hung there ludicrously. Then the thought of Standart’s belongings returned to him and he fumbled his way back to Standart’s closet and swept an armful of clothes from the pegs. Halfway across to the window he stopped, assailed by a doubt. Where was Standart? He hadn’t seen him once from the time he had awakened him! He had not been with them downstairs, nor had he shown up outside later! Monty went quickly to the window and got rid of his burden and then, choking, his eyes streaming and smarting, sprang across to Standart’s bed.
With vast relief, he found it empty, the clothes huddled together. That was all right, then. Standart was safe. But, back at the window a new fear reached him. Perhaps he had not got out, after all! Perhaps he was still somewhere in the house. He certainly had not seen him. For a moment he hesitated. Then he threw off the fear with a shrug of his shoulders. Standart had been awakened as soon as any of them. It wasn’t likely that he would have deliberately chosen to remain in the house. He put a leg across the sill and again hesitated. Suppose Standart was still in the room? He might be! He might have become panic-stricken and fainted, just as Mrs. Fair had done! Monty drew his foot back and once more wound the towel across his mouth. Then he dropped to his hands and knees, for the smoke was too thick now for human endurance to stand. As quickly as he could he made his way to the door, his hand groping about in the darkness. Nothing rewarded him. He groped back to the alcove, choking, sputtering, his lungs aching, and then across the room to his own bed. A sudden crash of falling timbers and an accompanying flare of crimson light brought him to his feet. But it was only a wall below, and he dropped to his knees again. His hand touched the doorsill and curiosity made him reach up and turn the knob, and as he did so the thought came to him that here was conclusive evidence that Standart had gone out, for he remembered leaving the door open after he had awakened him. His search had been idle, after all. And just then, as the latch was released, the door swung inward against him as though of its own volition and something toppled across the sill.